The Silent Blade: Renegade
by Isolde1
Summary: As his lover finds himself caught in a whirlwind of political intrigue that leads Konoha to the brink of war, former Hunter Iruka must risk everything to protect what he holds dear. Just how far would you go to defend what is yours? [KakaIru, Book 2]
1. Twisted Logic

**The Silent Blade: Renegade**

**Author:** Carcinya (Isolde1 on fanfiction(dot)net)  
**Author E-mail:** carcinya(at)yahoo(dot)com  
**Category:** Action/Adventure/Romance  
**Keywords:** Naruto Hunter-nin Iruka Kakashi  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Spoilers:** Possible up to episode 145  
**Summary:** As his lover find himself caught in a deadly whirlwind of political intrigue that leads Konoha to the brink of war, former Hunter Iruka must risk everything to protect what he holds dear. Just how far would _you_ go to defend what is yours? (KakaIru, Book 2)  
**Disclaimer:** This story is based on situations and characters created and owned by Masashi Kishimoto, various publishers including but not limited to TV Tokyo. No money is being made and no copyright infringement intended. The infamous Nenani-sama is Messy Peaches's.

Now, now, people. If Naruto was mine, do you really think I'd be sitting at my computer, sipping bad coffee, and writing bad fanfiction? Honestly.

**Author's notes: **I apologize in advance for any spelling or grammar mistake there might be in this story. I am French, and still only learning the beautiful language that is English. Any comments are welcome, but obviously flames will be used to roast marshmallows. Or flamers. Yummy.

Here we are, the sequel. I must warn you, though, "TSB: Renegade" is quite different in tone and pace from the original TSB. (Like, say, The Fellowship of the Rings and The Two Towers... only a _lot_ less well-written)

The following takes place two years after "TSB: Hunter". It won't make much sense if you have not read it, unfortunately.

Beta-ed by Elizabeth, Bronze Tigress and Telosphilos. Thank you!

* * *

Glossary

_Inazumi_: Flash of lightning.  
_Kurohyou_: Black panther.

**Chapter 1: Twisted Logic**

_**Woe to the man whose heart has not learned while young to hope, to love - and to put its trust in life.**_

**-- Joseph Conrad**

Iruka sheathed his swords in a smooth, practised motion. The rain-soaked black fabric of his training attire clung to his slender frame. He had tied up his shoulder-length black hair in a loose ponytail, in order to keep it out of his face while he fought.

He stretched carefully, sore muscles rippling under his smooth tan skin, his joints protesting at the strain. A vague, lingering ache in his left arm brought a wry, fleeting smile of remembrance to his lips. He fingered his Hunter tattoo and the old, white scar under it with unaccountable reverence.

Across the clearing, Uchiha Sasuke was cleaning his katana, Inazumi, against his leg bindings. He slid it back into its tastefully-adorned scabbard, then he prodded at the light gash across his chest experimentally, wincing almost imperceptibly. With a snort of disdain, he stalked over to his teacher.

"You should get that wound checked, Sasuke-kun," Iruka advised, "It might get infected."

The boy looked utterly unconcerned but did not outright refuse, knowing better by now than to cross his teacher's mothering instincts.

"You wouldn't want Nenani-sama mad at you, now, _would_ you?"

Sasuke rolled his eyes, but nodded, paling a little.

_Karasu-sensei was right, the harridan always does the trick_, Iruka thought, amused in spite of himself. Well, it _had_ worked with Itachi back then, so he supposed it would work with anyone.

"We might as well go home," the former Hunter said, with a grimace. "Did I mention I hate the rain?"

If the twist at the corner of Sasuke's mouth was any indication, he shared the sentiment.

They trudged back to the village, too worn out to teleport, leap from branch to branch or even run -- the teacher chatting amiably, and the student grunting in reply from time to time. They parted at the huge Gates of Konoha. Sasuke took the direction of the Uchiha complex, while Iruka headed for the northern part of the village.

Muddy water flowed down the steep cobbled streets of the Pine District as he dragged himself back to the apartment he had moved into with Kakashi a few months ago. Lightning flashed, thunder rumbled in the distance and all of a sudden Iruka found himself thinking of the Jounin. He couldn't wait to be home.

But first, he had to fulfil a promise made to an old friend.

§

Iruka hummed under his breath as he turned the key, stopping abruptly when he noticed the door was unlocked. He checked the room quickly, reaching out with his mind, relaxing fractionally when he detected Kakashi's warm aura in the kitchen. However, an uneasy feeling nestled in the pit of his stomach and stayed there.

He stepped in and removed his mud-covered sandals with a wince of disgust.

"I'm home," he called softly, his mind already picturing a thousand pleasant ways to spend the rest of the evening with his lover. It was late, but he had nothing scheduled tomorrow morning, so they _might_ be able to sleep at some point then. Maybe.

His musings were cut short when he caught sight of his lover, leaning stiffly against the kitchen counter, arms crossed defiantly on his well-defined chest. Both his face and left eye were bare, and that usually spelled trouble.

Kakashi levelled a sombre, mismatched glare at him.

"Something wrong?" Iruka asked, puzzled.

"You _think_?" came the immediate, scathing reply.

Iruka froze. He could have slapped himself. At least that explained the nagging feeling of having forgotten something that had plagued him all day long.

"It was _tonight_, wasn't it?" he asked, sounding defeated. It wasn't really a question.

"If by _it_ you mean the fucking dinner we were supposed to have and you conveniently forgot _again_, then _yes_."

When Kakashi started swearing, that usually meant trouble.

Iruka gave a deep sigh. He was soaked, chilled and bone-tired, and above all, he hated lovers' quarrels with a passion. They were just so pointless and so mean, often stooping to perfectly ridiculous levels of pettiness, self-righteous anger becoming more important than hurting the other. It didn't fit well with Iruka's idea of a cosy evening.

"I was working out with Sasuke," he said, quickly. He turned around, busying himself with the removal of his blades. "I didn't realize it was so late..."

Both sentences were perfectly true Iruka reasoned with his conscience. At least when taken separately

"Sasuke phoned here two hours ago," the Jounin interrupted him. "He bumped into Nenani-sama on the way back."

Iruka let out a string of curses under his breath. He did not like where this conversation was headed, and it was quickly spiralling out of control. Why had he lied to Kakashi? He had always been a terrible liar, and usually he respected Kakashi enough not to try. But somehow the words had tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them.

"Where were you?" Kakashi asked, trying to conceal the irritation in his voice.

Iruka knew he should have apologized, but Kakashi's venomous, patronizing tone grated at his nerves. He already felt wretched for letting him down again, and the flicker of pain he glimpsed in his lover's eyes left him reeling.

So the young man did what he had always done when in pain. He attacked. His head whipped around, viper-quick. His dark brown eyes narrowed in anger, and he growled, low in his throat. Springing to his feet, his fists on his hips, he raised his chin and stared straight at the silver-haired Jounin.

"Screw you," Iruka swore meaningfully. "I'm not your wife."

"God forbid," the Jounin returned dryly. It was hard to tell whether or not he was joking, and Iruka decided he did not care to find out.

"If you _must_ know," he forced out at last, opting for the plain, unadorned truth -- not that he actually had any other valid option. "I was at Kurenai's."

"_Really_?" came the murmured question.

The former Hunter stiffened and swallowed uneasily. After living with Kakashi for nearly three years, he had become adept at reading the other man's moods. And he knew, with the certainty of first-hand experience, that the quieter his lover became, the angrier he truly was.

"Yes, _really_. I had promised her I'd come and spend time with the twins. What did _you_ think?"

"I don't _know_ what to think. After all, you've been spending an awful lot of time around Hakuchuu lately," Kakashi said. "Longing to get brats of your own, maybe?"

Had the air not been crackling with tension, Iruka might have laughed. As it was, he frowned, taken aback at the sheer absurdity of his lover's accusation. Obviously enough, Kakashi was trying to irritate him -- and succeeding -- but for what purpose?

An echo of a time long past, he suddenly heard the steady voice of Karasu-sensei, his Hunter instructor, chiding him firmly.

_Temper, Iruka, temper. Anger clouds the mind and dulls the blade._

So the older man wanted to trick him into revealing _something_. Iruka felt a brief flare of hurt at the underhanded technique, but stifled it at once. They were both battle-tried shinobi, after all, with everything that implied. At any rate, Kakashi had sorely underestimated him and his Hunter-acquired ability to distance himself from his feelings.

Wrestling himself under control took only a few painstaking seconds, although a great deal of effort. The young man let himself go progressively cold, bottling his anger, his pain under a thick barrier of ice.

Clear-headed under the frost, Iruka's mind raced.

Hakuchuu was Washi's fretful young apprentice. Though she had received her mask and name almost two years ago, the fair, swan-graceful girl had yet to gain the confidence and poise that befitted her rank. She reminded Iruka endearingly of his childhood friend Iria, before she had lost herself into Byakko the White Fox. He was quite fond of her, in a strictly platonic sense, and up till now Kakashi had never seemed to mind.

The apparent change of heart did not fool him.

"Helping her with her _Kenjutsu_," Iruka pointed out, with seemingly unwavering calm. "I used to be a Hunter, remember?"

Kakashi gave a bark of derisive laughter.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"As if you'd ever let me forget _that_," Kakashi muttered. "You don't wear that damn mask anymore, but nothing else has changed."

Iruka froze, his dark eyes narrowing to slits.

"Elaborate," he snapped curtly.

"Have you noticed how the other shinobi act around you? How _you_ act around _them_?"

Kakashi managed the rare feat of stunning the young man into silence.

"You miss it, don't you?" he murmured, his intent, mismatched gaze never leaving Iruka's. He took a step forward. "The thrill. The _power_."

"I don't see what you're talking about," Iruka snapped, after a moment's hesitation that did not escape his lover's keen eyes.

"_Kurohyou_," the older man said, that single word heavy with understatement. "You won't let go." Then he added, "Hell, even _Washi_ still calls you Okashira!"

"Nonsense," Iruka hissed, his low tone a warning.

"Just look at yourself!" Kakashi said, undaunted. "So _fucking_ calm. A picture straight out of a history book."

Belatedly, it dawned upon Iruka that _this_ was the point his decidedly roundabout lover had been trying to make all along. He had walked right into the trap like a naive Genin. So Kakashi had not underestimated _him_, the former Hunter admitted, chagrined, but rather the other way around.

"Must have been easier for you back then. At least you had a ready-made excuse to hide yourself."

That was the last straw. The ice cracked. All the anger and resentment Iruka had been bottling up suddenly flooded and overwhelmed him in a tidal wave of fury.

"Are you calling me a _coward_?"

Kakashi stared at him intently, but did not deny the accusation.

"You arrogant fuck," the former Hunter yelled, then clenched his jaw so hard it hurt. He shoved the Jounin away from him with a snarl. "You don't know shit about me!"

"How the hell could I?" his lover shot back instantly, mismatched gaze flashing in pained anger. Then he added, more quietly, "You never say anything."

"If you don't like it, you can pack up your shit and fuck off," the former Hunter announced, beyond furious. "That would clear up some space!"

He regretted his venomous words the instant they left his mouth. Kakashi winced as if he had been slapped, but the Jounin schooled his handsome features into a mask of cold anger so quickly that Iruka was left wondering if had simply imagined it.

"Fine," his lover ground out eventually, between gritted teeth.

"Fine!" Iruka shot back. He crossed his arms on his chest and glared up at Kakashi defiantly. Fury lit his eyes a rich brown and dusted colour across his cheeks. They locked gazes in a silent test of will, both too stubborn to back off.

Iruka was the first to look away.

"To _hell_ with it," the former Hunter muttered, giving in to the temptation to throw down his hands in frustrated annoyance. He stalked to the door, opened it wide, and walked out without a backward glance, slamming the door behind him.

§

"You look terrible," Kurenai announced unceremoniously, eyeing the drenched young man standing on her porch under the beating rain. Barefoot, his black hair in disarray, he was hugging himself tightly, shivering in the cold.

_Like a drowned cat_, Kurenai thought immediately. _Wet, miserable and pretending to be fine._

She ushered him in without further ado and kicked the door shut behind them.

"Stay here, you'll ruin the carpet," she ordered, with the firm tone of one used to such disasters. "I'll get you some dry clothes."

Uncharacteristically, Iruka did as he was told without protesting, definitely not in the mood to argue. The red-eyed woman was back within moments and helped the former Hunter out of his training attire with practised efficiency and absolutely no shame. Kurenai handed him a thick cotton towel, then stepped behind him, untied his forehead protector and ponytail, then set about drying his hair.

Under Kurenai's diligent care, Iruka quickly found himself bundled up on the sofa under a warm, woollen blanket, wearing some of Asuma's oversized pyjamas.

"Tea or warm milk?" came his friend's voice from the kitchen.

Iruka winced at the mention of the dreaded beverage. He would have given his left arm for a cup of hot, black coffee.

"Tea, please."

She came back into the living room with a plastic tray balanced on her hands. She wore a huge, tattered night robe -- probably Asuma's, he surmised.

"I'm sorry. I'm imposing on you," Iruka said quietly. Then he added, as an afterthought, "_Again_."

Kurenai smiled.

"Don't worry. With Asuma out of town on a mission, I need all the help I can get with my two monsters."

Even in his state, the young man could not help chuckling at the mention of the twins. At the honorable age of one year old, Akira and Katsu gave their loving parents a great deal of trouble. Though they insisted it was worth it, Iruka had noticed Kurenai often sported dark circles under her crimson eyes, and Asuma had tripled his cigarette consumption.

"So," Kurenai began, pouring fragrant hot tea into two small cups, "_What_ did you two fight about this time?"

Iruka looked up, startled.

"How did you..."

"Please," she drawled, raising an eyebrow. "I'm _married_."

After a moment's hesitation, Iruka gave in to his friend's inquiring crimson gaze, and quickly summed up what had transpired between Kakashi and him an hour ago -- leaving out some parts and adroitly directing Kurenai's questions. He often found himself thankful Ibiki himself had taught him the fine art of living through interrogation at the hands of the enemy.

When he was done, she stared at him for a long moment, her pale face set in a thoughtful frown.

"People say terrible things when they're angry," Kurenai said at last. "Things they regret afterwards. You know, when I was having the boys, I kept screaming at Asuma. How I would ask for divorce, remove his manly bits and then cook them with curry..."

Iruka's already immense respect for the bearded Jounin went up another notch. He made a mental note to take him out for a drink one of these days, as one war veteran to another.

Kurenai reached out to stroke his cheek. He flinched and she snatched back her hand, frowning.

"I've got the feeling there's more to this than you're letting on, Iruka-kun," she said pensively, cocking her head to the side. "But I won't press."

The former Hunter had a small, wan smile.

"Thanks."

"Sleep, now," she ordered good-naturedly, rising and setting their tea cups onto the tray. Then she added, with a somewhat wry grin, "While you _can_. We'll take turns with the twins."

Iruka hid under the blanket with a heartfelt groan .

§

When Iruka went home the next morning, he had the unpleasant surprise of finding it cold and empty of Kakashi. His first reaction was flaring annoyance -- the Jounin had not even left a note. Then he remembered, through the hazy fog that filled his sleep-deprived mind, that the Jounin had a mission scheduled today, one that would keep him away from home far too long for Iruka's taste. The dinner they should have had the day before had been to wish him luck.

Along with Washi, Hakuchuu, Genma and Sasuke, his lover was to escort the delegation the Fire Country was sending to the Hidden Village of Sand, where they would discuss commercial treaties with the leaders of the Wind Country.

Still in Asuma's borrowed clothes, the former Hunter made for the coffee-maker morosely. He took the milk out of the fridge, and cursed. How many times had he told Kakashi not to leave empty bottles? With a half-hearted four-letter word, he toed open the trash bin.

And froze.

Discarding the milk bottle without a second glance, the young man crouched down quickly -- wincing as one of his knees, broken six months ago, gave a painful throb of protest. He started rifling through the garbage, unable to believe his eyes.

Fifteen or so crumpled sheets of paper, all starting with Iruka's name at the top. Most were disgusting beyond recognition, but one of them was covered in writing rather than vegetable peels. Most of the message had been furiously scribbled over and struck through. On the whole, it was nearly unreadable, but squinting hard Iruka managed to make out a few words scattered across the page, jotted down in his lover's unmistakable spidery scrawl:

"...hopeless... messed up... a complete failure... stop... your fault... so pointless... Let's forget this and..."

Iruka scrambled up in horrified haste. He smoothed the piece of paper on the kitchen counter and read it again, with agonizing slowness. He managed to make out a few more words, but nothing that fundamentally changed the general meaning of the message. Then he crumpled the letter in his fist. As his arm came to rest listlessly at his side, the paper fell and hit the hardwood floor with an dull sound.

Slowly, silently, the young man made his way across the living room and dropped to his knees in front of the window, ignoring the jolt of pain from his bad leg. He opened the shoji door in a smooth, practised motion. Light poured into the room.

Iruka stared into space until the sun rose high in the clear blue sky, feeling even more wretched and bereft of hope than he ever had in his Hunter years.

Now he knew precisely how much he had lost.

* * *

TBC

Don't worry. Thing will get better -- _maybe_. Feedback more than welcome!


	2. Fall to Pieces

**The Silent Blade: Renegade**

**Author:** Carcinya (Isolde1 on fanfiction(dot)net)  
**Author E-mail:** carcinya(at)yahoo(dot)com  
**Category:** Action/Adventure/Romance  
**Keywords:** Naruto Hunter-nin Iruka Kakashi  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Spoilers:** Possible up to episode 145  
**Summary:** As his lover finds himself caught in a deadly whirlwind of political intrigue that leads Konoha to the brink of war, former Hunter Iruka must risk everything to protect what he holds dear. Just how far would _you_ go to defend what is yours? (KakaIru, Book 2)  
**Disclaimer:** This story is based on situations and characters created and owned by Masashi Kishimoto, various publishers including but not limited to TV Tokyo. No money is being made and no copyright infringement intended.

Now, now, people. If Naruto was mine, do you really think I'd be sitting at my computer, sipping bad coffee, and writing bad fanfiction? Honestly.

**Author's notes: **I apologize in advance for any spelling or grammar mistake there might be in this story. I am French, and still only learning the beautiful language that is English. Any comments are welcome, but obviously flames will be used to roast marshmallows. Or flamers. Yummy.

Bissap is a sort of herbal tea, popular in western Africa.

Beta-ed by Noods and Bronze Tigress. Thank you!

* * *

Glossary

_Suna: _Sand.  
_Hakuchuu: _White Swan.  
_Hime_: Princess.

**Chapter 2: Fall to Pieces**

**_Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a persistent one_.**

**-- Albert Einstein**

_Later that day_

Though the early morning had been pleasantly cool, the late spring sun had risen quickly after dawn and started tormenting the Fire Country delegation.

Well, not _all_ of them, Sasuke thought peevishly. The Daimyo's daughter and the diplomats were comfortably seated in their palanquins, sheltered from the rigors of travel -- unlike their shinobi guards who journeyed on foot and slept exposed to the elements.

Though Sasuke would have bitten off his tongue rather than complain, he was definitely grateful for the light, almost unnoticeable breeze that cooled down the painful burns on his sensitive skin. For the most part, the others did not look better off. Hakuchuu, the white-clad Hunter, was panting heavily under her confining mask. Genma was sweating heavily and sucking on his senbon needle without respite.

Washi was obviously trying to look unaffected. It was a well-rehearsed act, to be sure. Had Sasuke himself been less adept at pretending, he might have been fooled. As it was, the minute details that betrayed the Hunter's discomfort did not escape his keen eye. The day was still young, and the man had already downed half his water supply. Not to mention the way he kept pulling up his mask ever so slightly to enjoy a whiff of fresh air.

Pathetic.

Pursing his lips, the Uchiha shook his head in disapproval.

And then, there was Kakashi-sensei.

Having travelled, trained and worked with him for years, Sasuke prided himself on knowing his former teacher better than most. Which, granted, was not saying much. Yet usually they managed to understand each other well enough, even though they did not always agree or get along. And today, he could tell the man -- ordinarily amiable -- wanted nothing more than to be left alone. When Hakuchuu slowed down to walk next to him, and attempted to strike up a conversation, he turned her down sharply and strode ahead without a backward glance. A few hours later, Genma was rebuffed in the same fashion.

Kakashi was rarely talkative on a good day, but this was truly bordering on the ridiculous.

And he had not even bothered to pull out his infamous orange book. Something was clearly bothering him, and while Sasuke did not give a damn _what _it was about, he certainly hoped Kakashi would get over it _soon_. Even the most talented ninja could become a liability in combat if they let their private lives overlap with their work, and the Jounin was no exception.

Sasuke cast the Copy-Nin a last reproving glance, then turned his attention back to the dusty road that stretched ominously for miles ahead.

§

_Two days later_

To Sasuke's mild chagrin, by the time the delegation stopped for the night near the border with the Wind Country, Kakashi had not yet snapped out of his melancholy mood. As had become his habit since they had left the village, he plopped down on a tree stump as far from the others as security would allow, took out a tattered notebook and started writing.

Munching on a rice ball, the Uchiha had half a mind to get up, stalk over to the Jounin and shake some sense into him. Yet he balked at the task, for he knew there was only one person that could upset Kakashi so badly.

Iruka, the walking emotional earthquake.

The ex-Hunter had the nasty habit of bulldozing his way through people's hearts, crumbling down the thickest walls like mere houses of cards, shattering beliefs like glass before settling among the remains and hanging on for dear life. Having been subjected to its devastating effects, Sasuke admitted it was a fearsome thing to behold.

Besides, he had absolutely no desire to pry into his teachers' love lives. The young man shuddered at the very thought.

At the same time, it had become apparent by now that the man had _no_ intention of pulling himself together, as a proper shinobi should. The way things were going, he seemed in fact determined to mope over his misfortune for the rest of the mission.

Sasuke didn't think the group could graciously handle another day, let alone a _week_ of this silent, sullen version of Kakashi. Already the atmosphere among the shinobi had deteriorated. The air was fairly crackling with tension. Hakuchuu had taken Kakashi's rejection personally, and Washi had naturally sided with his apprentice. Genma, on the contrary, seemed to support Kakashi.

Such dissensions within the team were dangerous and unworthy of the high-ranked shinobi they were. In a word, unacceptable. At any rate, it confirmed some of the doubts he had been harbouring for a while.

Washi was an excellent Hunter, of that Sasuke had no doubt. But he was not half the leader Kurohyou had been.

And still _was_, Sasuke admitted readily to himself.

The Hokage trusted him, and the Hunters would follow him without question. Iruka had their loyalty, and Washi's above all. Yet he paraded around, pretending to be nothing more than a Jounin with some skill at kenjutsu.

He acted the part to near perfection, and the Hokage indulged him by playing along. Sasuke understood why, but he could not condone her behaviour.

Denying the truth was pointless and dangerous. Iruka had been Kurohyou for ten years, far too long to ever hope to revert back to normal life, or whatever passed for normal in their world. Once a Hunter, always a Hunter. But more than that, the man was a _leader_. It was part of him, no matter how hard he tried to pretend otherwise -- and the gods knew he _did_.

Hell, he had probably even managed to convince himself.

But that was neither here nor there. Let the Hokage deal with her own messes; at the moment, Sasuke had a sulky genius to handle.

He got up gracefully and made his way across the camp, careful not to step on Genma's prone, snoring form.

"Spill it."

Kakashi looked up from his notes and eyed him curiously.

"Something is wrong," Sasuke said curtly. "I want to know what."

The Copy-nin stared at him for a long while, then snapped his notebook shut with an audible clap.

"I didn't take you for the inquisitive type, Sasuke-kun," he began, cocking his head to the side. "What prompted this sudden interest in my private life?"

"Whatever is bothering _you_ is driving _me_ nuts," the younger man grunted, sitting down next to his former teacher. "So spill it." Then he added, obviously as an afterthought, "And for the Hokage's sake, make it _quick_."

"Why, I am touched," the Jounin declared, his tone fairly dripping with sarcasm. "I didn't know you cared."

"I don't," the Uchiha drawled, looking faintly bored. "But your lack of self-control is affecting the mission. And since Washi obviously won't do anything..."

For a long moment, Kakashi remained silent.

"So you want to know what's wrong?" he asked all of sudden, his tone deceptively light.

Sasuke nodded.

"Because you feel I can't deal with it myself."

"Yes."

"And so -- according to you -- I'm endangering the mission."

"Yes."

There was another heavy silence. Then Kakashi said, brusquely,

"I'll say it only once, so listen well."

"I _am_ listening."

Kakashi leaned forward and grabbed the front of Sasuke's flak jacket in a smooth, controlled motion.

"Mind your own fucking business, _Chuunin,_" he murmured dangerously, staring at him with frightening coldness. The young man's chakra flared at the aggression. With an effort of will, he reined in the impulse to chidori his ex-teacher's masked face off.

Then the Jounin shoved him away, scrambled up and stalked away. Sasuke brushed himself off and frowned.

A psychotic brother, a neurotic teacher, and now, an emotionally unstable team mate -- _why_ did this sort of thing keep happening to him?

§

_Three days later_

Hakuchuu hated the desert.

She surveyed the endless expense of sand with resignation. They had only been crossing the Dune Sea for two days, and already she could feel her patience ebbing at an alarming rate. At every break, Suzu-hime, the young princess, complained endless about everything she could think of -- Hakuchuu was ready to swear she spent hours making lists of things that disagreed with her noble person. The shinobi guards were tired and on edge, and Kakashi's moody brooding certainly did not help.

She heaved a deep, weary sigh, wishing she could wipe the sweat off her face under the oppressive porcelain mask.

It wouldn't be the last time.

§

On the eve of the sixth day, the unmistakable silhouette of Suna at last stood out against the blood-red horizon. And none too soon. After nearly a week's harassing journey, the fragile peace the delegation had managed to uphold was bursting at the seams.

Genma stretched discreetly, wincing as he heard his joints popping back into place.

The Dune Sea had given way to a desert of rocky, hilly highlands. On top of the highest and largest mesa, the shinobi of Hidden Sand had built their famous city. Designed to blend with its surroundings, the village itself was hard to spot, as the high walls and sturdy houses were made of the same granite rock that formed the nearby mountains. It was indeed an impressive work of architecture, easily defendable and yet inconspicuous, as expected of a village that had made discretion and deceit its trade.

As they progressed with some difficulty up the narrow, winding path that was the only possible access to the city gates, Genma endeavored to keep his gaze firmly on Sasuke's back and not on the increasingly steeper slope on his left side. Heights had never been his forte. It proved infinitely harder that he had previously thought, and when they finally reached the top, he found himself grateful for the reprieve.

His hands on his thighs, he took a deep breath to steady himself, shrugging vaguely when Sasuke not-so-discreetly levelled a sneer in his general direction. He did not mind the boy's barely hidden scorn. In all honesty, Genma cared little about what people in general thought about him, and expected people to do the same in return.

Some people mattered -- Raidou, his mother, Kurenai, Iruka, Ibiki perhaps -- and those few he would die rather than disappoint. And then, there was everyone else, who in his opinion simply _happened_ to be there, by some twist of fate.

He shifted his heavy backpack onto his sore shoulders and set off after the others on the dusty path.

Genma had lived through two wars, the Kyuubi, and Raidou's cooking. He had nothing to prove, to anyone -- and certainly _not_ to an uppity brat who knew all about vengeance, and nothing about life.

§

_Four days later_

From where he sat cross-legged on the window ledge, Washi had a clear view on his team and the living room of their temporary quarters -- just as he had intended. After all the agitation of the past few days, he needed a moment's peace and quiet to think. He had half a mind to summon Hakaze, for advice as much as companionship, as the planar had always proved excellent at providing the two. Yet he had promised the great bird some well-deserved time off, and while he could think of many reasons for his current anxiety, none of them seemed serious enough to disturb his friend.

It was still quite early, and the shinobi of Konoha were not yet awake enough to fall back into their new-found pattern of mutual irritation. Hakuchuu sat in a corner, apparently meditating. Genma and Sasuke nursed steaming hot cups in silence.

Unlike the others, who drank the local bissap tea without complaints, Kakashi had upon arrival bribed a young servant into finding him black-market coffee -- probably bought at a hair-raising price. After living for two years with Iruka, coffee addict extraordinaire, it was hardly surprising that Kakashi should have developed a taste for the strong, bitter beverage himself.

But in truth, it wasn't Kakashi's quirks that troubled the Hunter's mind.

Ever since their arrival in Suna, the Copy-nin's behavior had grown increasingly odd. He had gone from vaguely moody to worryingly restless and irritable, bordering at times on the paranoid.

Though it wasn't exceedingly unusual in itself, Washi couldn't help but notice that Kakashi seemed to suffer from the climate a great deal more than the rest of the team. He constantly shied away from the bright, harsh sun and favored the cool, shady rooms they had been assigned. As a result, he had not set foot outside _once_, and spent most of the day either prowling the corridors and pacing endlessly, during one of his restless, sleepless spells, or sprawled on his futon, staring vacantly into space, as exhaustion caught up with him.

Though he would never admit it, the Hunter was growing worried.

Kakashi slammed down his empty cup onto the low table, rattling bowls and chopsticks, and startling Washi out of his bleak musings.

"Leave me _alone_!" he screamed in sudden fury. He grabbed a clay pitcher and threw it at a nearby wall, where it crashed with a sickening, wet _crunch_. "You're dead! _Dead_!"

Then the rage seemed to drain out of him as quickly as it had come, and he bent double, hugging himself tightly.

"Dead, dead, dead..." he muttered in a monotone, over and over, rocking back and forth like a wounded beast.

Hakuchuu, who had jumped to her feet at the commotion, seemed to hesitate. She approached him warily, as one would a wild horse. Bending in front of Kakashi, she laid a cautious hand on his shoulder.

The Jounin jerked away at the feather-light touch, his head snapping up in alarm, his one unmasked pupil dilated and a little wild. As Hakuchuu took a hasty step back, he looked around, blinked a few times and suddenly seemed to remember where he was -- and perhaps, Washi thought, _who_ he was.

Kakashi stiffened visibly.

"What are you all looking at?" he snarled, as if daring them to comment.

Across the room, Genma looked away, a strange expression crossing his handsome face. He traded a quick questioning glance with Sasuke, who shook his head slightly. The four shinobi watched in bemusement as the sallow-faced, harrowed-looking Jounin dragged himself to his feet and stalked out of the room without a backward glance, slamming the door after him.

"What's gotten into him?" Hakuchuu asked, sounding a bit shaken. She fidgeted, and tucked a stray lock of white-blonde hair behind her ear in a nervous gesture.

"I've never seen Kakashi like this," Sasuke said.

"Me neither," Genma said. "But I figured this might happen sooner or later."

The Uchiha raised an eloquent eyebrow.

"Well, he's got quite a family history..."

"_What_ are you implying, exactly?" Hakuchuu interjected, bristling.

The Jounin shrugged, sucking thoughtfully on his eternal senbon needle.

"Go on," Washi said curtly, before the white-clad Hunter could interrupt again. "And sit down, Hakuchuu."

He was not her teacher anymore, but he was still her leader. She obeyed, as she always did, and knelt dutifully on the tatami floor. Not for the first time, the Hunter wished his former apprentice would show more self-restraint, at least in public. Such behavior did not fit their rank and responsibility.

"I'm not implying anything," Genma went on, blandly. "All I'm saying is, considering his background, I'm not surprised he finally snapped."

Hakuchuu sucked in a quick, angry breath, and closed her fists.

"Hatake-san is not _crazy_," she forced out, through gritted teeth.

Genma shrugged again, and the young Hunter had no answer to that.

"Still," the Uchiha said all of a sudden, scorn lacing his voice, "All this ruckus for _love_, of all things. This is ridiculous."

They all turned to stare at him, eyebrows raised in concert.

"You think he and Iruka...?"

"It must be," Sasuke interrupted, coolly. "I can think of nothing else that would upset him so."

"I didn't quite picture him as the type to break down over pillow trouble," Washi declared, sounding rather dubious.

"Stranger things have been known to happen," Genma said philosophically, twirling his senbon needle between his fingers.

"And don't forget this is _Iruka_ we're talking about," Sasuke shot back, not without a little dread.

The Konoha shinobi exchanged a telling look.

"Point taken."

Silence stretched between the four of them, heavy and pensive. None of them dared say what they were all thinking. Washi would have to relieve Kakashi of his duties, if his behavior did not improve.

After two days, it became apparent that it would not.

The day Washi suspended Kakashi from active duty, Hakuchuu caught wind of some disturbing rumors during one of her walks in disguise around the city. The grapevine spoke of impending assassination on Suzu-hime, the princess of Fire Country. On a good day, Washi would not have disregarded such claims easily, and, considering the sense of foreboding that had plagued him for the past week, he was certainly inclined to treat them seriously indeed.

In order to increase her security without raising suspicions, he tried to convince the princess to claim exhaustion and stay in her luxurious suite until the audience with the Daimyo.

She flatly refused.

The Hunter was thus forced to assign her two permanent bodyguards who shadowed her day and night, as discreetly as possible. But the sheer strain of the task meant frequent relief, and with only three shinobi at his disposal Washi quickly found himself with no man to spare. He thought about asking for Hidden Sand's help, but quickly dismissed the notion -- he could not be sure of the Suna shinobi's loyalty, and _that_ would completely defeat the point.

Which only left Kakashi.

Against his better judgement, Washi decided to sign up the Jounin for the next shift.

§

_The next morning_

"... and so, in the name of my Honored Father, the venerable Daimyo of the Fire Country, I hereby..."

Suzu trailed off, eyes widening, an expression of shock coming over her face as she was gently swept off her feet by a blur of silver and regulation green.

"Procedure 8-13," the man bellowed at the top of his lungs. "Procedure 8-13! _Protect the princess_!"

Before the young girl could understand what was happening, she was handed over to one of her bodyguards, a honey-haired, mask-wearing elite ninja whose name she had never managed to remember. One of his arms held her tight against his chest, while his other hand formed strange shapes. The world suddenly seemed to lose all substance, and she squeezed her eyes shut against the sensation. When she opened them again a second later, they were all the way across the throne room. Suzu guessed she must have fainted at some point.

The man pushed her in a corner, her back to the wooden wall, and pressed down on her shoulder until she was squatting. Then he whirled around, quick as a flash, and crouched as well, shielding her with his body.

"Bow your head and hold onto my jacket," the man ordered in a low tone, obviously expecting to be obeyed.

He sounded awfully calm, Suzu thought, a bit peeved. Didn't he care if evil people hurt her or not?

"Whatever happens, _don't let go_."

There was an edge to his voice. For once in her life, the princess decided to do exactly as she was told. She laid her cheek onto the bodyguard's muscled shoulder, but curiosity won over sheer terror, and she kept her eyes open.

Diplomats and civil servants were rushing out of the throne room, screaming and squealing in terror. Suzu pursed her lips at their display of cowardice.

The Daimyo had risen, his bearing regal and his face unreadable. At his side, his son was obviously attempting to tug him to safety, but the elderly lord would have none of it, and kept trying to stem the growing panic.

Suddenly she felt the shinobi's back tense under her palms.

With staggering speed, one of her bodyguards -- a tall, masked man with a startling shock of silver hair -- came to stand before the Daimyo. The air seemed to crackle perilously around him. The faint distinctive scent of thunder pervaded the room. The shinobi raised his arm and a flash of metal caught Suzu's eye. The princess blinked, startled.

The ninja made a slashing motion across the lord's throat. For a few endless seconds, the throne room seemed to freeze in horrified silence.

His dark face and hair drenched crimson, the Daimyo of Wind Country collapsed against the stone floor.

* * *

TBC 

Cliffhanger? _What_ cliffhanger?


	3. On The Warpath

**The Silent Blade: Renegade**

**Author:** Carcinya (Isolde1 on fanfiction(dot)net)  
**Author E-mail:** carcinya(at)aol(dot)com  
**Category:** Action/Adventure/Romance  
**Keywords:** Naruto Hunter-nin Iruka Kakashi  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Spoilers:** Possible up to episode 145  
**Summary:** As his lover finds himself caught in a deadly whirlwind of political intrigue that leads Konoha to the brink of war, former Hunter Iruka must risk everything to protect what he holds dear. Just how far would _you_ go to defend what is yours? (KakaIru, Book 2)  
**Disclaimer:** This story is based on situations and characters created and owned by Masashi Kishimoto, various publishers including but not limited to TV Tokyo. No money is being made and no copyright infringement intended.

Now, now, people. If Naruto was mine, do you really think I'd be sitting at my computer, sipping bad coffee, and writing bad fanfiction? Honestly.

**Author's notes: **I apologize in advance for any spelling or grammar mistake there might be in this story. I am French, and still only learning the beautiful language that is English. Any comments are welcome, but obviously flames will be used to roast marshmallows. Or flamers. Yummy.

The Shinto festival described below does not exist to my knowledge. Consider it artistic license!

Beta-ed by Noods and Bronze Tigress. Thank you!

* * *

Glossary

_Inazumi_: Flash of lightning.

**Chapter 3: On The Warpath**

_**There is no sacrifice. There is a choice, and the rest falls away.**_

**-- Muriel Rukeyser**

_A few days later_

Iruka's eyes flew open automatically a couple of seconds before the doorbell rang. Startled out of his bleary half-doze by the irritating chime, the young man cursed under his breath.

If he looked half as wretched as he felt, his unwanted visitor was in for a surprise. He had barely set a foot outside in many days, and it showed. When he had last looked at himself in a mirror, Iruka had decided sleep deprivation and endless moping did not suit him. At all. He had trouble bringing himself to care. All he managed to want these days was to curl up on the sofa and stare into nothingness.

On his way to the door, he kicked one of Kakashi's books out of the way, basking perversely in the mean, petty satisfaction it brought him. If this was what being dumped felt like, Iruka thought peevishly, he would rather he had stayed celibate, thank you very much.

He did not even try to keep the anger at bay. Fuming and drowning in strawberry ice cream seemed a perfectly acceptable coping program, or so he had gathered after many years nursing of Kurenai's heartbreaks.

The former Hunter was aware he was whining in a most childish manner -- reminiscent of his former Academy students -- and _hated_ it, but somehow his thoughts seemed to be running in circles.

_Kakashi._

Not that he missed him. Not in the slightest. Anger and frustration kept him up at night, not misguided, unaccountable grief at having, somehow, managed to mess up the best thing that had ever happened to him.

Now if only he could bring himself to believe that. It was in moments like those that Iruka wished, so absurdly and so strongly it hurt, for Sandaime's presence.

The old man would have graced him with a pensive, oblique look, smoke rising in thoughtful swirls above his wide-brimmed hat. He would not have judged him, Iruka knew. In truth, he had never blamed him for any of his failures -- and the gods knew there had been many. He had never minded that as a teenager, Iruka had been the human equivalent of a huge, complex jigsaw puzzle, with so many missing parts it was a wonder he had never simply fallen to pieces. Instead, he had seemed to draw genuine, uncomplicated pleasure from the strenuous task of patching him up.

There would have been no questions, as he had known how much Iruka hated speaking about himself, or his past. He would not have pointed out the obvious way out of his latest mishap. Sandaime would have smiled, of course, his roguish, crooked, benevolent smile, and nudged him in the right direction, leaving the young man to think up his own answers, secure in the knowledge he was not alone to face them.

Now he was. Kakashi had left.

No, Iruka corrected himself wearily, he had driven him away.

Not that he _cared_.

He opened the door wide, not even bothering to check the aura behind the wood. His eyes widened in barely concealed astonishment when he saw Sasuke. Uncoiling his chakra and assessing his student for injuries took only a matter of seconds, but even the absence of obvious damage did little to soothe his worry. The boy was filthy and looked frighteningly exhausted.

"Are you alright?" he asked at once, the self-pity he had been wallowing in for the past few days instantly overridden by his concern. It suddenly occurred to him that the Uchiha had been part of the escort sent to Suna, which was not scheduled to return for at least a month. "Why are you back so soon?"

Something about the way Sasuke stood, or the subtle way he was carefully avoiding Iruka's questioning face, sent the young man's mental alarms haywire. All of sudden, terror flared in his chest, choking and overwhelming.

"Did something happen to Kakashi?" he rasped out hoarsely.

Sasuke looked at him then, and there was a breathless moment when time seemed to slow down to a crawl. Iruka watched in fascination as the boy's mouth opened and started moving. Then all of a sudden, sounds took meaning again in a rush.

"... alive. At least he was when we last saw him."

Iruka released a pent-up breath. Light-headed with relief, or perhaps oxygen deprivation, he had to grab the doorway for support.

He heard himself say, in a clear, detached voice, "Tell me what happened."

The Uchiha shot him an unreadable glance.

"Impossible," he said shortly.

Iruka's dark eyes narrowed dangerously. He took a step forward and grabbed his student by the collar of his bloodied, dusty flak jacket. The boy glowered, but knew better than to try and free himself when the former Hunter was in such a murderous mood.

"Tell me _now_."

After a brief, wary glance over his shoulder, Sasuke met his teacher's clouded gaze.

"Not so loud," he hissed, in obvious annoyance. "I shouldn't even be here. This is _classified_."

Iruka's lips thinned.

"What's the matter with you?" he snapped. "You know I have the highest possible security clearance."

Though not a Hunter anymore, he still served as the Hokage's personal advisor and thus retained some of his former privileges. Unless...

"Not anymore," Sasuke cut in tonelessly, confirming his doubts. "Hokage-sama pulled it. Temporarily."

So whatever was going on, Tsunade did not want _him_ to know -- at least not this way. Sasuke was aware of this, and yet he had come to tell him anyway. It suddenly occurred to Iruka, under the roiling anger, just how much of a risk the boy was taking for his sake. He released him with a muttered apology Sasuke disregarded entirely.

"Sasuke-kun," Iruka said, aware of the desperate need seeping into his voice, and not caring. "I _have_ to know."

The boy regarded him for a long minute, his expression unreadable. Then he gave a curt nod towards Iruka's doorway.

"We'll talk inside."

§

Leaning against the kitchen counter, nursing a cup of reheated coffee from the pot Iruka always kept close by, Sasuke quickly went over the events of the previous days.

"Last we saw of him, he was being dragged off to jail," the Uchiha said shortly.

His heart wrenching at the mental image, Iruka paled but forced himself to react like a shinobi.

The mission had been rather straightforward, if critical -- establish trade agreements between Konoha and Suna. Commercial treaties were considered a solid stepping stone for political alliances. Since both villages would definitely benefit from such partnership, it was safe to assume that Kakashi had _not_ been acting on orders from Konoha. Besides, if Tsunade had wanted to send his lover as an undercover assassin, as her personal advisor Iruka _would_ have been informed. That only left the option of Kakashi betraying their village, or losing his mind, and both options Iruka refused to simply consider, even though he knew he was being irrational.

All his thoughts came down to the same conclusion: Kakashi was in deep trouble. Exactly _how_ he had found himself in that situation was of little importance at the moment. What really mattered, in Iruka's opinion, was getting him out of Suna's clutches.

And soon.

"When did it happen?"

"We fled Suna immediately after Kakashi was sentenced," Sasuke began, closing his eyes in thought. "That was four days ago."

"Sentenced?" Iruka cut in sharply. "You didn't mention a trial."

The boy seemed to hesitate.

"No blood must be shed during the two-week Festival of Amaterasu," Sasuke began. Then he murmured, "That is the only reason Kakashi is still alive."

Iruka sucked in a quick, pained breath.

"Assassination of a lord is considered high treason," the Uchiha continued tonelessly. "The decree was immediate."

_Death_.

The laws of the different countries were surprisingly simple when it came to regicide. The only variations concerned the mode of execution, and in that regard, Suna did not lack cruelty.

"Once the ritual days are over, Kakashi will be hanged, drawn and quartered," Sasuke said, and Iruka detected a faint note of dread in his voice.

The former Hunter bared his teeth in a grim parody of a smile.

"Over _my_ dead body," he snarled.

§

_Later_

Tsunade crossed and uncrossed her legs repetitively under her heavy mahogany desk. Her fingers tap-danced continuously over the lacquered surface, stopping only to smooth back her long ash-blond hair. She was nervous.

Very nervous.

She had no reason to be. For the moment, her plan was going to perfection. She had sent for Iruka two _hours_ ago. Had he harbored any suspicions, he would certainly have rushed into her office the moment he received the summon -- with Kakashi's life on the line, he would not have wasted a minute, of that she had no doubt.

The door creaked open and one of her ANBU guards slipped in discreetly.

"Iruka-san to see you, Hokage-sama," he announced, bland and calm as befitted his rank.

She took a deep breath and straightened her back.

"Show him in."

The object of her musings walked in, graceful and smiling as usual. His hair framed his face in dark, unruly strands. She noted with relief that he wasn't armed -- it was a measure of his trust in her that he had not bothered to bring with him Tsume and Kiba, the famous twin swords that had been his constant companions during his years as a Hunter.

A trust that she did not deserve today, she reminded herself, her smile vanishing abruptly. She forced herself to focus. She was the Hokage, and for her duty would always come before friendship, not matter how hard she wished it weren't so.

"Good afternoon, Hokage-sama," the young man said, with a deep, respectful bow. Then he gave a quick nod, acknowledging Tora and Hakuchuu's presence.

"Iruka," she said with a nod. "You're late."

The black-haired Jounin scratched his nose, flashing her one of his trademark sheepish, apologetic smiles.

"I'm sorry, I ran into some trouble on the way. I'll make sure it doesn't happen again."

"Good."

Silence stretched between them. Iruka stood quietly at attention in front of her desk, arms crossed behind his back, as was his habit. Even after a few minutes under Tsunade's careful scrutiny his body language all but exuded serene calm, but that in itself was not unusual for an ex-Hunter.

Eventually, though, curiosity got the better of him.

"If I may ask," he said slowly, "Why did you send for me, Hokage-sama?"

Though she had been expecting the question, Tsunade had to hide a faint smile. Kurohyou would have spent hours staring at her in silence rather than allow himself such weakness.

_Things change_, she mused. _And so do people_.

"Sit down, Iruka."

_He has become soft._

He obeyed, a frown settling on his brow.

"Nothing too serious, I hope?"

The Hokage shifted in her seat, and looked at him from under dark leashes, weighing her options.

"Kakashi murdered the Daimyo of Wind Country," she declared at last, opting for the unadorned truth.

Iruka's eyes widened in visible shock, and he leaned forward, hands gripping the edge of the mahogany desk.

"Impossible," he said curtly, firmly. "He wouldn't."

"Yet he _did_, Iruka," Tsunade cut in, a steely edge to her tone. "In front of witnesses."

The ex-Hunter stared at her, opened his mouth to retort then thought better of it and remained silent. The silence between them was almost unbearably loud.

"We both know Kakashi wasn't acting on your orders."

Tsunade shook her head at the implied question.

"And there's no question of his loyalty," Iruka said, his expression fierce. "_Is_ there?"

"There isn't," the Hokage acknowledged with a quick nod. "That only leaves..."

"No," he interrupted immediately. "Don't even _say_ it."

"Iruka..."

"I've been living with Kakashi for two years," the young man said. "He may be a lot of things, but he's _not_ crazy." Then, ruefully, "Trust me, he's the sanest of us both."

_Which is not saying much, _Tsunade thought and kept to herself prudently.

"Perhaps you don't know him as well as you like to think," she pointed out instead.

"I know him better than _anyone_."

"Then surely you are aware of his past?" she retorted, before she could help herself. Iruka flinched but kept his head up, gritting his teeth.

"Your point being?"

Tsunade did not hesitate.

"Brief reactive psychosis is not uncommon among elite shinobi."

Iruka caught the allusion immediately -- a short-lived psychotic episode, usually triggered by intense stress. His mouth pinched tightly.

"You cannot be suggesting..."

"Kakashi is ANBU," she reminded him.

"So are half of your most trusted advisors," Iruka retorted instantly. "You don't automatically suspect them of being insane."

Tsunade let out a light sigh and shut her eyes briefly.

"You're right. I don't," she agreed. Then she added, more softly, "But, Iruka -- Kakashi displayed disquieting symptoms long _before_ his breakdown."

"What?"

"Washi and his team reported increasingly strange behavior on Kakashi's part. I had Ibiki inspect their memories after debriefing, and he confirmed their version."

Some unnamed emotion flickered in Iruka's gaze. Tsunade barely recognized it as dread. For a long moment the young man said nothing, staring at her fixedly, his expression properly guarded. Then he said, in a monotone,

"How bad?"

"Irritability, paranoia, restlessness. Even full-blown hallucinations."

There was a silence.

"I see," the ex-Hunter said, though it was hard to tell if he did. "So this is Konoha's official stance -- Kakashi has lost his mind."

Tsunade's silence was eloquent enough. Iruka glanced at her sharply.

"But you don't really believe that," he murmured, his dark eyes never leaving her face, "_Do_ you?"

"What I think is of little importance, Iruka," she said, wearily. "It's too late for second thoughts."

The ex-Hunter stilled.

"Hokage-sama," he breathed out, hoarsely. "_What_ have you done?"

Tsunade's face was grim, but she did not shy from the truth.

"I cancelled Kakashi's diplomatic protection."

The young man blanched.

"_What_? Are you out of your mind?" Iruka burst out, forsaking propriety. "Without Konoha's protection, they can do _whatever_ they want to him!"

"I had no other choice," the Hokage shot back tersely, annoyed that she still felt the need to justify herself to this man. "The Daimyo of Wind Country is dead. Kakashi killed him. Now the son wants revenge for the father."

"So you will give them Kakashi."

Tsunade inclined her head and said nothing.

"Someone is trying to manipulate us," the ex-Hunter ground out, his frustration evident. "And we're playing right into their hands."

"Perhaps," she agreed blearily, feeling very old. "Perhaps not. But it doesn't matter now -- it's too late. If it weren't for Gaara, Kiyomasa would have declared war on the Fire country already. Is that what you want? Open war?"

"Of course not," Iruka snapped. "But there has to be another way."

"Kakashi's life is a small price to pay for the country's safety," Tsunade said shortly. Contempt flickered in her amber eyes. "Once, you would have agreed."

The backhanded, insulting implication was clear. The young man gritted his teeth, refusing to rise to the bait.

"Cowardice has never prevented war."

"You forget yourself, _Jounin_!" she snarled, thrown off-guard by the baldness of the statement.

He was right, she knew, and that made it all the more painful. It was easy for him to take the moral high ground. Perhaps he thought she was taking pleasure in sentencing Kakashi to infamy and certain death?

But morals had little place in politics. Sometimes unfair decisions had to be taken, regardless of personal feelings or inclination. Sometimes, sacrifices had to be made for the greater good.

It was something Iruka would never understand. He was a man of conviction. Everything he did, everything he said, was in accordance with his sense of right and wrong. He would die for honor and justice. In that regard, he and Naruto were very much alike

Yet Iruka wasn't Hokage -- and for his sake, and the village's, she hoped he would never be.

"Hokage-sama," Iruka began, his voice quiet but steady. "Whatever he has done -- I can't leave him to die. I just _can't_."

"Yes," Tsunade replied, slowly. "I know."

She squeezed her eyes shut, knowing what duty commanded, hating every second of it.

"_Seize him._"

A flash of pained surprise crossed Iruka's face as Hakuchuu and Tora lunged at him all of a sudden. With remarkable synchronicity, they slapped powerful chakra-draining paper seals onto his back and chest.

Then Iruka exploded in a puff of chakra smoke and the two young Hunters found themselves thrown across the room by the sheer strength of the blast.

Hakuchuu was the first to recover. She instantly tried to get back to her feet and assess the potential threat, but she found her limbs would not obey her anymore. Startled, she looked down. She was glued to the wall, tied up from head to toes in white silky thread. A quick, panicked glance revealed that Tora and the Hokage were similarly entangled. In desperation, she tried without thinking to form a fire jutsu to burn her way out of her bonds. Though she was hardened to pain, the chakra rebound made her eyes water and her mouth open in a soundless scream under her mask.

Then the surge of power dissipated and she went limp, her head rolling back just in time to see Iruka slipping in noiselessly through one of the open windows. The young man landed on his feet with effortless, feline grace, and crossed the room to them, his pace leisurely and unhurried. He wore his habitual, well-worn battle outfit -- a black sleeveless shirt, leather armguards, boots and leggings of the same color. Almost an extension of himself, Tsume and Kiba hung across his back and on his left hip.

He stopped in front of the Hokage and cocked his head to the side. Then he took a deliberate step forward, invading her private space. He took her chin in his hand and forced her to meet his gaze. Fury lit his eyes a rich brown.

"Just _who_," he purred dangerously, his eyes narrowed to dark slits, "do you think _I_ am?"

His hand left her face to latch onto Tsunade's fine-boned wrist. He dragged her, still dangling in her spider-silk cocoon, towards her massive mahogany desk. There he slapped her palm onto the cold surface. The security jutsu immediately recognized her chakra signature and released its hold on the drawers. He let her go, and she drifted backwards slowly -- and rather ridiculously.

The ex-Hunter rifled through the papers with the careless ease of someone used to manning a desk. He drew one of them out -- a large yellow file stamped TOP-SECRET in bold red lettering -- and thumbed through it quickly, his expression sombre. Then he drew up his shirt, baring scarred dark skin, tucked the file into his pants, and covered it again.

As Iruka straightened, he suddenly seemed to notice Hakuchuu's predicament. He strode to her side, his fists closing involuntarily at the sight. Quickly, he stretched out his chakra and assessed her health, released a pent-up breath when it became apparent that she would live.

"You tried to use chakra, didn't you?" he said, his tone oozing teacherly disapproval. "Even though you had been _specifically_ instructed not to in such a situation. Well, savor the pain, my dear -- it's proof that you're still alive, which in other circumstances you might not be." He shot a sharp glance at Tora, who recoiled visibly. "That goes for _you_ too, mister. If she hadn't tried it first, I'm sure you would have."

"I won't blame you for not recognizing the binding jutsu," the ex-Hunter went on, pursing his lips in disdain. "It's one of Kakashi's recent inventions. However, you _should_ have sensed the clone. Had it been anyone else, you _would_ have, and my skill has nothing to do with it -- even a perfect Shadow Bunshin cannot fool a full fledged Hunter. Only you know me -- or you think you do -- and you simply _assumed_ I wasn't a threat. Never assume, always suspect. To think I even came in weaponless! _That_ should have rung a bell, if nothing else. When have you last seen me without my swords? For that matter, have you _ever_ seen me unarmed? No? Of course not. "

Abruptly running out of steam after that thorough tongue-lashing, Iruka crossed his arms on his well-defined chest and shook his head in annoyance.

"If I survive this," the ex-Hunter muttered, darkly, "I'm _so_ having a good talk with your teachers."

He fell silent, all the anger drained out of him. Now he looked bleak and weary beyond belief. Yet the flames of determination danced in his eyes like a dark fire. He turned around and came to stand in front of Tsunade, searching her face.

"I don't blame you, Hokage-sama. You did what you had to," he said, quietly. Then he added, with the unapologetic honesty that came with having fought too many wars, "And _so am I_."

For a long minute, Iruka said nothing, looking thoughtful. Tsunade glimpsed in his dark eyes a fleeting spark of regret, quickly put out.

"I'll go now. But since in all likelihood I'll never have the opportunity to say this again -- _thank you_," he said suddenly, his tone full of unexpected, genuine gratitude. "You wanted to spare me the agony of having to choose between my lover and my village. For that, I'm grateful."

Tsunade closed her eyes briefly, and something not unlike relief eased her weary conscience. She had not thought he would understand. She had underestimated him -- _again_.

She hung her head in silent resignation.

Iruka would stop at nothing to save the man he loved, and truly, she had been a fool to expect any less. She stared thoughtfully at the swirls of chakra smoke that signalled the ex-Hunter's departure. A single thought burned in her mind, a truth she should never have made the mistake of forgetting.

There was no such thing as a tame panther.

§

There were times when Iruka hated being right. As he materialized, heart pounding, at the Hunters' memorial, he resisted the urge to punch his fist bloody on the familiar black stone. His mind raced, circling around the same thoughts.

He forced himself into the state of quiet detachment Karasu-sensei had patiently drilled into him years ago, and assessed his situation. Except for Kiba and Tsume, and a few kunai, he was basically weaponless. Worse, he did not have rations, clothes or even water, and he was without a yen to his name.

Yet going back to the village was out of the question. By now his spider-web jutsu would have worn off, he estimated, and the Hokage would be out for his blood -- and not without reasons. He had trapped her and two Hunters, disobeyed a directed order, and stolen top-secret files. There would be no turning back now, or ever.

Between Kakashi and Konoha, the young man realized with a jolt, there was no choice to be made.

A sudden rustle of leaves startled him out of his bleak musings. Iruka crouched low, chakra at the ready, pulled tight into his body and ready to flare. His gloved palms flew to the hilts of his swords. He stiffened when he recognised Washi's assured, warm aura. Swiftly he teleported on a branch and concealed himself, melting into a shadow and screening his chakra.

Washi appeared amidst little chakra smoke, his masked face held high. His body language gave off nothing, even to Iruka's trained eyes. He moved without haste to the centre of the clearing. There he unstrapped the heavy, dark green canvas knapsack he carried on his back and placed it against the black memorial stone.

Slowly he turned around, faced Iruka's tree and looked up.

The brown-clad Hunter knew he was there.

The young man held his breath, his jolt of surprise an abrupt reminder that while he had weakened, Washi had grown stronger and more assured. The new leader of the Hunters had grown dear to him as time and shared memories eased the distance of propriety between them.

Iruka had absolutely no desire to fight him, as a duel between the two of them could only end in blood or death. However, he would let nothing deter him from his goal -- friend, foe, Hokage.

The only thing that mattered was Kakashi.

However, his fears proved unfounded. Washi gave a single, solemn nod in Iruka's general direction then vanished in a swirl of leaves. The young man let himself slide down from the tree, landing gracefully on the grass.

Painfully aware of how little time he had to spare, he approached the memorial with caution born of experience. He could sense no abnormal chakra activity -- against all odds, it seemed the Hunter leader had not set a trap.

In fact, as Iruka quickly discovered, the backpack Washi has left him was an ANBU survival kit. He rifled through the contents with almost feverish glee: fifteen shuriken, kunai, senbon, and a survival knife; MREs and water rations for a week; a space blanket, waterproof matches and two light sticks; iodine tablets; a med kit; emergency jutsu scrolls; supplies for basic hygiene; some cash and a change of clothes.

Quickly Iruka stripped naked, shivering in the cool evening air. He scrubbed himself with the scent-blocking salve, careful not to leave out a single patch of skin. He paused, hesitating, as he reached his heavy, unruly dark mane. He had half a mind to hack it off, for simplicity's sake -- shoulder-length hair was a luxury for elite shinobi -- but then thought better of it. Instead, he poured some of the cold, transparent liquid onto his scalp and spread it onto his hair, vowing to wash it as soon as the nin-dogs lost his trail.

He put on the ANBU uniform, immediately noting the subtle disparities with the Hunter's outfit. It felt bulkier, and heavier. It occurred to him, all of sudden, that he was probably the only shinobi of Konoha who could tell the difference. The irony of the thought brought a small smile to his lips.

Iruka found himself grateful Washi had been thoughtful enough not to include a porcelain mask. ANBU and Hunters considered their masks to be the symbols of their devotion to the village. They were not to be trifled with, or worn in jest.

He folded the top-secret file he had stolen from Tsunade, and tried to stuff it into one of the backpack's hidden pockets. To his surprise, there was already a slip of paper inside. It was, of all things, a letter. After checking it for traps, Iruka read it quickly, the special ink disappearing as soon as his eyes fell on the terse, carefully-drawn characters,

"Okashira,

You have three hours. Don't waste them."

The note wasn't signed, but there was absolutely no doubt about the writer's identity. Iruka squeezed his eyes shut, overwhelmed, and not a little ashamed.

Kakashi had been right all along. The Hunters, or at the very least Washi, were still loyal to him. And because of that unaccountable attachment, he had driven their leader -- his _friend_ -- to betray his country.

For his sake.

The ex-Hunter squeezed his eyes shut against a wave of choking, gripping emotion. He had to take a deep breath so as not to falter. Now was not the time for second thoughts, he berated himself sternly, steeling himself.

Remorse and regrets could wait. Kakashi wouldn't.

His heart heavy but his determination intact, Iruka set off at top-speed across the forest, having become the very thing he had hunted for years.

A renegade.

* * *

TBC 

Feedback much welcome.


	4. Full of Sun

**The Silent Blade: Renegade**

**Author:** Carcinya (Isolde1 on fanfiction(dot)net)  
**Author E-mail:** carcinya(at)yahoo(dot)com  
**Category:** Action/Adventure/Romance  
**Keywords:** Naruto Hunter-nin Iruka Kakashi  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Spoilers:** Possible up to episode 145  
**Summary:** As his lover finds himself caught in a deadly whirlwind of political intrigue that leads Konoha to the brink of war, former Hunter Iruka must risk everything to protect what he holds dear. Just how far would _you_ go to defend what is yours? (KakaIru, Book 2)  
**Disclaimer:** This story is based on situations and characters created and owned by Masashi Kishimoto, various publishers including but not limited to TV Tokyo. No money is being made and no copyright infringement intended.

Now, now, people. If Naruto were mine, do you really think I'd be sitting at my computer, sipping bad coffee, and writing bad fanfiction? Honestly.

**Author's notes: **I apologize in advance for any spelling or grammar mistake there might be in this story. I am French, and still only learning the beautiful language that is English. Any comments are welcome, but obviously flames will be used to roast marshmallows. Or flamers. Yummy.

Longest chapter _ever_.

Betaed by Noods, Telosphilos and tatsumaki. Thanks, girls!

* * *

Glossary

_Tagelmust_: Traditional desert headgear, both a veil and a turban.  
_Chinkana_: Gazelle.

**Chapter 4: Full of Sun**

_**Not all those who wander are lost.  
**_**--J.R.R. Tolkien**

_A few hours later_

It had taken the Konoha delegation four days to rush back from the Sand, but then the shinobi had been carrying the princess and the two diplomats on their backs, and had chosen the "official" road that circumvented the mountains.

He could reach Suna in half that time, Iruka estimated, if he took the shorter route through the Snowy Peaks. Dangerous and rarely trodden, that path did not appear on any ninja maps -- to the best of his knowledge. It had been made in times of necessity by another, far more ancient people, but even they rarely used it nowadays.

Iruka's family had come to the Fire Country this way, almost seventeen years ago. Though he only held faint, pained memories of that particular trip, he was confident he could find the path again if he put his mind to the task.

Not that he actually had another option. There would be a bounty on his head by now, and soon the Hunters would be prowling the well-traveled roads. But even the best trackers could not follow a prey down a path they didn't even know _existed_.

He had half a mind to steal a mount at a post house, so as not to leave a chakra trail. But he quickly dismissed the notion: a valley horse would be as ill at ease in the mountains as in the desert. Though it would certainly be more tiring, going on foot might actually prove faster and more discreet in the long run.

With a resolute sigh, Iruka strapped his backpack tight against his back, and set out in the forest at an even-paced jog.

§

Checking his compass from time to time, Iruka neared the outskirts of the Snowy Peaks some time before midnight. He was tired, but not overly so -- as a Hunter, he had sometimes stayed awake for three days running. He ate two energy bars and settled against a tree for a fifteen-minute nap. Then, smothering a yawn, he scrambled to his feet and started running again.

On the second day, after a harrowing climb across the mountain pass, the ex-Hunter reached the desert. The icy night air had a sharp, crisp quality to it, but Iruka knew from vivid memory that in a few hours the sun would rise and scorch without mercy those foolish enough to try and cross the Dune Sea.

As a child, he had often wondered at that designation, but now that he could see it from so far above, the vast ocean of rippling pale sand seemed to wax and wane with the breeze, true to its name.

Iruka licked his already dry, cracked lips, tasting blood.

Trying to cross the Dune Sea was, to put it mildly, pure suicide. Maps were scarce, imprecise, and above all pointless, as the shifting sands made and unmade landmarks, swallowed oases and erased tracks. Inexperienced travelers quickly lost their ways and died of thirst, or exposure to the sun's harsh glare.

The Tribe alone could navigate that ever-changing maze. They were an ancient people, as old and unmovable as the land itself. They lived on their own, reviled and scorned by the shinobi that had settled on their homeland centuries ago and forced them to retreat, some to the desert, others to the mountains, like Iruka's maternal ancestors.

While Iruka himself had little knowledge of the desert, having only crossed it a few times -- almost two _decades_ ago -- ten years as a Hunter had taught the necessary skills to adapt to extremely hostile situations. He had only vague recollections of his final destination, but he was confident he could survive for a while until they found him.

Sometimes you needed to be lost in order to find your way, Karasu-sensei had told him once, rather cryptically, and with perhaps a note of wistfulness. Iruka thought, all peevishness aside, that it summed up his life rather aptly so far.

That was probably the main difficulty between Kakashi and him. The Jounin pretended, artfully, to be lost on the road of life -- when in fact he knew precisely what he wanted, and how to get it.

Iruka admired and envied his quiet, unapologetic assurance, painfully aware that he was the exact opposite, that under the picture-perfect shinobi hid a man deeply flawed: outwardly assertive, moody and headstrong, but in reality scrambling to cover his abiding fear under sheer stubbornness and spectacular displays of temper.

He hadn't been surprised when Kakashi had finally left him; in truth, he had been expecting him to since the day they had moved in together. That hadn't made it any easier to bear, Iruka admitted in the privacy of his mind, but at least he hadn't been caught off guard.

What he found startling, however, was how much time it had taken the other man to see behind the facade. No one had ever stayed that long -- nor had Iruka honestly ever thought anyone would.

He was impossible to live with, that much he knew. His formidable temper aside, he had enough issues to send most people screaming into the night, and make mind healers rub their hands in unholy glee.

From the first, he had tried to push Kakashi away; and even after the Jounin had forcefully shouldered his way into his heart, Iruka had never stopped fighting him, testing him, keeping him at arm's length. Yet Kakashi had stood his ground, meeting him more than halfway, rarely if ever losing patience with his idiosyncrasies, never asking more of Iruka than he could give. In return the ex-Hunter had offered little -- if anything. Not even the three simple, stupid words he had _known_ Kakashi longed to hear from him.

There was only so much a man, even a stubborn genius, could take. He couldn't blame him for leaving.

Two years ago, Iruka had been ready to die. In truth, he hadn't found himself worth salvaging. He hadn't seen the point. Dying in defense of Konoha had seemed a fitting and honorable way out. And then Kakashi had barged into his life and changed _everything_.

Now the tables had turned. Kakashi was in grave danger. It didn't matter if the Jounin didn't want him anymore. It didn't matter if he never wanted to see him again.

Kakashi needed _him_ -- that was all that mattered. He would not let him down this time.

The ex-Hunter rubbed at his face angrily. It was the wind making his eyes sting, he told himself firmly, nothing more. His jaw set, his back straight, he clenched his fists.

Yes, he would definitely make it up to him.

§

_Later in the day_

Iruka tipped his head back, careful not to let a single drop of water escape from his canteen. Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, the ex-Hunter surveyed his surroundings. He had covered as much of his body as possible with spare clothes, tying a regulation green t-shirt around his neck and head like a scarf.

He truly, deeply hated the desert -- the sweltering heat, sand that got positively everywhere, scorpions and above all, the sheer monotony of the scenery. At least Iruka's dark colorings mostly protected him from burns. He hated to imagine what the sun's harsh glare might have done to Kakashi's pale, delicate skin.

A pang of hunger struck him, only made worse by the knowledge that he wouldn't be eating anytime soon. Digestion required water he couldn't spare.

Even in his desperate need to get to Kakashi as quickly as possible, Iruka was acutely conscious that walking around during the day meant certain death, within hours. He squinted against the harsh glare of the sun, and scooted back further under the makeshift shelter -- a space blanket stretched between two dunes -- and started planning.

Until the sun went down, there was nothing else to be done.

§

The following night, Iruka headed south and slightly west under the moon's watchful gaze. As he progressed, the dunes gave way to dry, cooler gravel plains. Vegetation was sparse, but at least he wasn't breathing sand anymore, which was a definite improvement.

It also made walking easier, and significantly lowered the odds of losing his way. Not that it would matter in the long run. Hunger and fatigue had become his constant companions, and he was quickly running out of water. However, turning back now would mean certain death -- there was no choice but to go on.

After a few hours, Iruka became aware through the haze of exhaustion of a low rumble in the distance. He stopped and crouched down carefully, mindful of his bad knee. He murmured a quick reconnaissance jutsu, asking the rocks to tell him what they heard. He closed his eyes, opening his mind and feeding chakra into the stone.

Horses. The clatter of hooves on dry, compact ground, and the unmistakable snap of leather.

Iruka inhaled sharply, his heart suddenly thundering in his chest.

Riders were coming this way.

Using his tracking jutsu as a guide, he made his way towards the horsemen. He followed them a long moment, studying them, before he allowed himself to be seen, hoping he wasn't making a terrible mistake.

The riders stopped their mounts abruptly when they spotted him a short distance away, drawing their short bows in clear warning. As Iruka remained silent and motionless, one of them heeled his horse into a light trot, reining in only a few meters away from him. He dismounted with the easy grace of one who lived in the saddle.

Taller and slimmer than any of the other warriors, the man wore the traditional garb favored by the men of the desert -- a tagelmust, silver-encrusted leather wristbands and boots, a loose-fitting cotton cloak over simple leggings and a long shirt. A long knife was tucked into the white sash around his waist that identified him as leader. His smooth, unlined face betrayed his youth but the arrogant tilt of his chin and the deep indigo color of his turban confirmed his high rank among the clan.

In spite of his nervousness, Iruka couldn't hold back a small, tight smile at the sight of those familiar black eyes. Against all odds, luck seemed to be on his side tonight.

The man eyed him warily.

_Who are you?_ he signed one-handed, the other never leaving the hilt of his dagger.

The ex-Hunter crossed his arms at the wrists and bowed his head, a gesture of peace and friendship. The other's eyes widened marginally, betraying his shock.

_Friend_, the shinobi replied in the same fashion, his motions at first hesitant and graceless. _Son of mountain clan._

The sign language they had used served as lingua franca to communicate between the different clans of the Tribe. All children learned it at an early age, as soon as their parents could imprint it onto their malleable minds. Once he had "spoken" it as fluently as his mother, but after years in Konoha trying to erase any traces of his maternal heritage, he found himself rusty at best.

Still, a glint of understanding flashed across the warrior's dark gaze, though his face betrayed nothing.

_Long time, Full of Sun,_ Iruka said, warmly.

The man started at the mention of his name. His eyes narrowed to slits, scrutinizing Iruka with eerie intensity. But then a flicker of recognition crossed his dark eyes, and he visibly allowed himself to relax.

Iruka released a short, pent-up breath, relief flooding him even though he had not been overly anxious. Sign language left little to no room for deceit -- had Iruka attempted to deceive him, the warrior would have seen through it instantly, a fact they were both acutely aware of.

_Old friend,_ Full of Sun signed after a moment, _The dunes have shifted since we last saw each other._

Iruka inclined his head and gave a soft smile. His hands flowed through the ritual answer, _But under our feet, the sand remains unchanged._

Full of Sun took a step forward and opened his arms wide. The invitation was clear, and the shinobi did not hesitate. He was caught in a bone-creaking embrace, trying very hard to quell the surge of embarrassment that rose within him. The Tribe, unlike ninjas, had no reserve toward family members -- or one considered as such. That, too, Iruka had forgotten.

The other released him and stepped back after a long minute.

_We thought you dead_, the warrior began, his hands made shaky with emotion, _Along with your clan_.

Iruka fingered the scar across his nose, his expression set in a thoughtful frown.

_No_, he said slowly. _Not dead._

The other stared at him intently, taking in the shinobi's stiff posture and downcast eyes.

_Later_, Iruka motioned, curtly, cursing his lack of skill with the language. Some things could not be explained in a few words.

Evidently, Full of Sun knew better than to press.

_Very well_, he replied. Then, raising an eyebrow, _You look exhausted._

The shinobi nodded tiredly, resisting an insane urge to laugh.

_I explain later, _he signed, light-headed with relief and starvation._ At camp_.

Courtesy commanded that a visitor be treated with utmost politeness and respect. At Full of Sun's barked order, a young warrior dismounted and handed Iruka the reins of his mount -- a sturdy chestnut gelding.

It had been years since Iruka had last ridden a horse, especially bareback; but he quickly found old reflexes surfacing. He jumped, threw his leg over the roan's narrow back. Whipcord lean muscles rippled under his thighs. He shifted, closing his calves around the smooth flanks of the horse, and gathered the simple leather bridle.

His ears flattened against his skull, the animal pranced fretfully. Unruffled, Iruka simply straightened his back and clamped his legs firmly around the gelding's barrel, careful not to heel.

Full of Sun mounted his own black stallion -- a fine, sleek animal with slender legs and a long mane braided with indigo ribbons -- and his warriors quickly imitated him. Soon they heeled their mounts into a gallop, racing with a kind of wild joy along a path only they could see. Iruka led his own horse after them, focusing hard on staying awake in spite of his abiding exhaustion.

§

They reached the Cave some time before sunrise.

It was exactly as Iruka remembered it from decades past -- a huge, half-moon shaped mount of dull red rock next to a snow-peaked mountain range, casting merciful shade on the oasis that stretched at its feet. Shallow caves sheltered most of the actual camp, though many beige canvas tents had been pitched nearby, on the meadow, rustling in the gentle breeze. Women draped in pristine off-white cloth bustled about the fires, some weaving large baskets or scaling fish, others busy preparing noon-meal. Children played in the pond, jumping from palm trees and large rocks into the clear, green water. Goats and domesticated chinkana -- desert gazelles -- grazed peacefully nearby.

The pungent smell of horses, leather and spices filled Iruka's nostrils -- and for a second, he remembered being nine and gazing upon the Cave for the first time in unmitigated wonder. Then the moment faded as the hot desert wind raised a swirl of gritty dust.

A long time ago, before the shinobi had come and changed everything, Iruka's clan had used to roam the cold, arid mountains of Earth Country. Though similar in many ways to that of the desert clan, their ways of life had been vastly dissimilar -- the differences subtle enough to elude shinobi and other city-dwellers, but glaring to Iruka, even after seventeen years in Konoha.

His horse stumbled, startling him out of his musings. Only shinobi reflexes kept him from a most humiliating fall. Blushing slightly, he twined his fingers in the roan's mane to steady himself.

They dismounted near the makeshift stables. Iruka slid off his horse and stretched discreetly, his muscles aching in places he had forgotten the existence of -- provided he had known them in the first place. He pulled down the shirt he had been using as a makeshift turban and wiped his dusty face.

Full of Sun unwound his tagelmust, revealing a face both familiar and terribly foreign. Long black hair fell in waves onto his shoulders -- as Chief's son, he did not have to keep it tightly braided like common warriors.

_Make yourself at home, friend,_ Full of Sun said. _I'll meet you at the cavern._

Offering Iruka a warm smile, he clasped his shoulder then went to tend to his own mount.

Before the shinobi could follow his cue, however, a dark-skinned young boy rushed to him and took the reins of his horse. As was proper, the child kept his head bowed and avoided looking at him directly. Still, curiosity warred over manners, and he stole quick glances here and there.

"Sem'eleth," Iruka offered, in hesitant desert tongue. "It's all right."

He reached out to ruffle the boy's braided hair, as he would have one of his former Academy students, but the child adroitly avoided his hand. He made for the stables hastily, tugging the horse after him.

Iruka frowned. After so many years in Konoha -- most of his life, really -- he had forgotten how reserved and touch-shy the Tribe could be. Full of Sun's welcome had been warm and heartfelt, but then the warrior considered him almost family. However, to many in the clan, and especially the children, Iruka was a virtual stranger, and as such excluded from the familiarity of open affection.

Worse even, he was shinobi. One of the Others. He couldn't be trusted.

The thought smarted, more than it should have.

When his family had been forced to seek refuge in the Hidden Village of Leaf, Iruka's idea of the shinobi world had been limited to the bed-time stories his father told him every night. Umino Seki had never endeavored to teach his young son the way of the ninja, as he and his Tribe wife had never intended to turn their back on the mountains.

However, life had decided otherwise. In Iruka's tenth year the Umino family had found themselves fleeing the destruction of their land, and settling down in Konoha's Willow district, immensely grateful for the Fourth's benevolence but still longing for the freedom and open spaces they had grown used to.

Iruka had tried very hard to fit in this new, unwanted life. He had learned to wear stiff, noisy sandals; to sit still for hours on end, listening to a teacher prattle on about subjects he had never even _heard_ of; to stifle his old Tribe-bred instincts and mannerisms, acutely aware of his difference.

It had taken him years of painstaking efforts, but eventually Iruka had managed to turn himself into a picture-perfect shinobi -- working his past into the ground, relentlessly, until appearance had become reality.

Kakashi had been right -- the ex-Hunter was never himself, because his very sense of self had become a moving, adaptable instrument of survival. He wasn't sure much how much of the half-blood boy had survived under the shinobi, how much of Iruka under Kurohyou. In truth, he feared the answer.

This -- stepping into the Cave, unmarked by time, as though his whole life had been a carefully constructed lie, or an incredibly vivid dream -- reopened wounds he had thought long healed, or at least well-concealed enough to be forgotten.

He hadn't _wanted_ to remember.

Quashing an insane urge to turn tail and run away, Iruka took a deep, shuddery breath. Kakashi _was_ worth it. He was worth facing this, no matter how hard his panicked, hammering heart tried to tell him otherwise.

He could not run away forever.

Steeling himself, he raised his head -- only to meet an all to familiar gaze.

Wise One had not changed. Almost eighteen years before, when Iruka had seen him last, the shaman had already looked ancient, his sun-browned skin paper-thin, his eyes warm with knowledge and benevolence sunk low under his hairless brow. The ex-Hunter swallowed with difficulty.

The old man seemed to sense his distress, for he offered a kind, toothless smile.

_It is good to see you, child_, he signed -- slowly and carefully, so Iruka could follow.

_It good_, the shinobi acquiesced. _Long time_. _Many memories_.

Wise One appeared please with his clumsy efforts.

_It will come back to you_, he said assuredly. _You have the blood_. _You are Tribe_.

Iruka wasn't -- not really, not anymore -- but he didn't have the heart to argue. He gave a jerky, non-committal nod.

_You must have been traveling for days_, Wise One observed._ You need to rest_.

_No time_, the shinobi replied. _Must see Chief. Talk first, sleep later_.

_At least clean up_, the medicine man signed, wrinkling his nose in distaste at Iruka's disheveled appearance. _You are _filthy_, child_.

The shinobi looked down at himself critically and had to agree. His dirty, matted hair fell in tangled strands over his grimy face. His clothes felt gritty with sand, his skin itchy with two-day old sweat.

Filthy was too kind a word to describe him.

_That's settled_, Wise One said. _Off to the lake you go. Do you remember the way?_

With a slight blush, Iruka had to admit that he didn't. To his chagrin, he had not been blessed with the Tribe's almost faultless eidetic memory, though it would certainly have come in handy during his hectic life.

Wise One barked an order, and a nearby girl jumped hastily to her feet. She came back after a few minutes, another child in tow. The same boy, Iruka noted awkwardly, who had taken care of his horse sometime earlier and brushed off his feeble attempts at conversation.

Iruka turned around all of sudden, clearing his throat and catching Wise One's gaze. The old man had been about to leave, and stilled expectantly.

_Yes?_

_Full of Sun?_ Iruka asked, a touch of concern permeating his motions. _He wait_. _No good_.

_I'll tell him where you are_, the shaman replied, dismissively. _Now go. You smell like a hyena_.

The shinobi resisted the sudden, insane urge to stick out his tongue. It seemed he had a knack for striking up friendships with infuriating old men, Iruka thought forlornly, trailing after his appointed guide.

The boy led him deeper into the cave, still pointedly avoiding his gaze. Iruka shrugged, too tired and sore to take offence. After sharing living quarters with Kakashi for two years, he had learned to choose his battles.

They walked for a few minutes in silence down a torch-lit tunnel, the boy striding ahead, Iruka following at a more sedate pace. His whole body ached with over-exertion. He had trouble keeping his eyes open, and more than once he stumbled in the dim light, his chakra levels too low to be of any use.

Still his mind raced in spite of his fatigue, or perhaps because of it. All his thoughts, jumbled and chaotic as they were, irremediably turned back to Kakashi's predicament -- more specifically, how to get him out of it no matter what it took.

Even war.

Guilt warred with sick fear until he had trouble distinguishing the two. The very idea of Kakashi's impending death, when it crossed his mind, was enough to make his heart pound with panic. He tried not to dwell too much on it. It took all his Hunter training to keep his formidable imagination in check.

The boy stopped in his tracks, so abruptly it was all Iruka could do not to jostle him. He squinted in the suddenly bright light. In front of them, the tunnel turned into a wide, high-roofed cavern. A wide expanse of clear green water came to lick at a smooth, pale stone shore. The surface gleamed, reflecting the sunshine that fell from two small natural chimneys.

Not an underground lake, Iruka remembered with a jolt. A river, than ran from the mountain range through the desert, feeding oases and settlements as it went.

The ex-Hunter stared at the rippling water intently. Suna was only a few kilometres upriver -- fifteen, twenty at the most. Suna, and Kakashi.

A tap to his shoulder startled Iruka out of his thoughts. He glanced down and found the boy staring impatiently at Iruka's booted feet. With an abrupt jerk of his head, he looked away and took Iruka's hand, tugging him towards the left bank.

There, next to what was clearly a rudimentary well, a small pile of rustic toiletries had been neatly stacked on top of a bundle of white cloth: a simple wooden comb, a lufah sponge, and roots, which Iruka recognized as soapwort.

The child released his hand and turned to him. He pointed at Iruka, then at the water, and made a simple gesture -- a variant of "clean up" one would use when talking to a baby or a toddler.

The shinobi raised an eyebrow, noting with faint amusement that he had just been insulted by a child half his size.

"Ak'ri yala shensu," he said, formally. "Be thanked for your help."

It was one of the few phrases Iruka remembered from the summer he and his clan had spent as guests at the Cave, decades earlier. But then, the boy didn't need to know _that_.

The child didn't blush -- the people of the desert rarely did, thanks to their darker coloring -- but his embarrassment was palpable.

Iruka took pity on him and laughed without resentment.

_You are right_, he said. _No speak well. Like child.  
_  
Wise One had been correct, Iruka noted with distinct pleasure -- he _was_ remembering. Grammar and syntax, he still had trouble with, and probably always would; but he was surprised to find words coming to him more easily.

Shedding some of his former reserve, the boy grinned up at him from behind a curtain of slim dark braids. He was blind in one eye, Iruka discovered abruptly, the skin badly mangled around the right orbit -- an acid burn, by the look of it -- and marring otherwise pleasant, regular features.

"Iruka", the shinobi said, pointing at himself, then making the signs for "Little Raven".

The sign language used to communicate between different clans was as ancient as the Tribe itself, and while it was by all means very useful, it was also rather limited by its descriptive nature. The only way to transcribe names was to use their meanings.

Being a fundamentally earthbound people, the Tribe had no word for dolphins, or any other sea mammals for that matter. Iruka thus had to refer to himself with his childhood nickname -- which, admittedly, sounded a bit silly for a grown man, but served its purpose.

"Aren," the child replied, with a nod of understanding. The hand sign he added translated his name roughly as Dust.

Iruka inclined his head in acknowledgment.

_You're _shar'ta_, aren't you?_ Dust blurted out. _That's why you can speak._

Shar'ta -- half-blood.

Iruka winced, abruptly reminded that few clans were as accepting of outsider as his mother's had been. Unions between Tribe members and one of the Others -- as they called all Japanese, shinobi and civilians alike -- were scarce, and their offspring rarely welcome in both communities.

Dust, however, didn't appear particularly disgusted. Simply curious, as though the idea that such a being -- half-Tribe, half-shinobi -- could actually exist outside of horror stories children whispered between themselves had never crossed his mind.

_Mother from Tribe,_ Iruka said. _Father from Leaf._

Considering the boy's perplexed expression, he had clearly never heard of Konoha, and thus had taken it to mean that Iruka's father had come from a tree -- literally.

_The Others_, the shinobi clarified.

Dust nodded, apparently satisfied with that explanation. The Tribe cared little for politics, and the concept of a Hidden Village where several different clans cohabited and competed for power was as foreign to them as their own community-oriented way of life to a ninja.

The ex-Hunter stripped quickly and efficiently, without a second thought. Modesty did not have its place here. Dust collected his clothes as he shed them, bundling them patiently.

Iruka unstrapped his swords in a smooth, practiced motion, smiling at Dust's unabashed glances. The boy seemed fascinated by the numerous scars crisscrossing his skin -- some old and fading, others more recently healed.

Each mark, each blemish had been won in combat. They told the story of a lifetime on the battlefield. They spoke of a way of life Dust couldn't even imagine -- in that regard most of all, the Tribe and the shinobi were simply too different.

There was wildness among the nomads, a carefully-directed energy contained in hunting, sparring and rituals. But it was nothing like the violence inherent to the shinobi world. The Tribe did not understand deceit. They could not conceive it. There wasn't even a word for it in their language.

Perhaps that was the significance of some of Iruka's dreams. _He_ could lie, though he would never been good at it. He was shinobi, for better or for worse.

Dust gave Iruka a small, shy smile, then left him to his own devices.

With a heartfelt sigh of pleasure, Iruka stepped into the water. It was cold, clear, and blissfully refreshing after three days on the run. He immersed himself completely and swam for a while, intent on relaxing his sore body. There was much to be done before he could get some rest, and he needed to be as clear-headed as possible.

He swam back to the shore and walked out, shivering slightly in the cool air. He rinsed the bowl and filled it. Then he picked up a round pebble and crushed the soapwort roots against the rough sandstone surface, forming a fragrant soapy lather.

Iruka cleaned himself thoroughly, rubbing the grime off his body and face with the lufah, untangling the snarls from his stringy, matted hair with the comb, massaging his aching shoulders and feet until he felt almost human again. He rinsed himself carefully, ladling water out of the well.

Once he had rubbed himself dry with the large cotton towel, Iruka put on the clothes he had been provided -- nondescript, loose-fitting brown leggings and tunic, hard-soled buckskin moccasins, a cream-colored sash and a leather belt.

For once, he fastened both his swords to his waist and legs, forsaking personal preference for convenience. It made him look a little less like a shinobi, and a little more like a regular warrior -- though Tribe fighters favored curved daggers and long, heavy spears over the lighter, nimbler kodachi the Hunter used.

Better to let them assume Iruka was a visiting warrior from a distant clan, which would easily explain his lighter coloring and strange mannerisms. The Tribe valued hospitality, but they had been at odds with shinobi for decades, and could hardly be blamed for being cautious.

Iruka made his way back to the cavern's entrance. As he neared the surface, the air became progressively warmer, the atmosphere brighter. The lively hustle and bustle of the Cave soon reached his ears, both a nuisance and a comfort, soothing in its boisterous normalcy.

He passed by a handful of women on their way to the well, carrying calabash gourds against their hips and chatting animatedly in desert speech. They fell silent and averted their eyes the moment they saw him, but he could feel their curious glances following him as he walked.

In a ninja village, Iruka's discreet arrival would have been remarkably inconspicuous; but at the Cave, strangers were an oddity -- and an endless source of gossip. He would have to resign himself to being all the talk around the cooking pit for a while; perhaps even fend off an offer of marriage or two -- in that department, a brief mention of his mixed heritage would probably do the trick.

He found Dust waiting for him near the Cave's entrance. The boy smiled shyly and handed him his forgotten backpack. Iruka shouldered it, offering a quick, thankful nod in return.

_Wise One said you must eat now_.

Iruka frowned.

_No time_, he signed hastily. _Must see Chief_.

_He rode out with the warriors before you arrived_, Dust explained patiently. _He won't be back until sundown_.

Of course, neither Wise One nor Full of Sun had bothered to inform Iruka of that fact. _Why_ was it that people kept trying to teach him patience when he clearly had no time to waste? He bit back an exasperated sigh and clamped down on his soaring frustration, setting his breathing to a relaxing pattern Karasu-sensei had taught him long ago.

Displays of temper would only disparage him in the eyes of the Tribe. Adults, especially men, were expected to master themselves in every circumstances. It was understandable, in light of their communal way of life. Conflicts were considered abhorrent, and as such, avoided with almost neurotic watchfulness, often stifled before they could bring tension to the group.

A warrior raising a hand on another, whether in anger or in cold blood, faced the clan's immediate censure. The dishonor was so great that most left the Cave in shame, shunned by their family and friends, and never came back.

Consequently, they viewed shinobi -- who taught their children to fight from infancy, and generally promoted a culture of deceit and violence -- as dangerously brutal and bellicose barbarians.

Iruka's mixed heritage made him as such an easy target for criticism and contempt. It would not do for him to fuel their prejudiced views by giving in to his temper.

At least not while he needed their help.

_Very well_, he agreed, seamlessly schooling his features into a pleasant mask.

Once, self-control had been almost second nature to him, and though he didn't keep as tight rein on his emotions as he used to, Iruka had little difficulty exercising restrain when the situation demanded it. One did not spent ten years as a Hunter without consequence -- as Kakashi seemed wont to bemoan, he remembered in annoyance.

Dust beamed, oblivious to Iruka's ruminations.  
_  
Come_, the boy urged, grabbing his hand. _My mother has made _haleem_ for you. _

The shinobi licked his lips. His stomach grumbled audibly. As a child, he had been extremely fond of desert cuisine, and _haleem_ -- a tasty blend of rice, minced gazelle meat, lentils and spices -- had been one of his favorite dishes. It was traditionally only served for celebrations -- rarely for noon-meal on an ordinary day.

For his mother to cook haleem for a _shar'ta_... Dust must have spoken highly of him to his family. The unexpected kindness eased something within his chest. No matter what came out of this whole mess, he had at least made a friend.

He let himself be tugged outside into the bright sunlight towards Dust's home. Betraying their low status in the clan's hierarchy, the family's tent was pitched near the cavern's entrance and offered little privacy or quiet, at least during the day.

Iruka stepped inside as Dust held out the door flap for him. He squinted, letting his eyes adjust to the change in light.

A middle-aged woman sat in a corner, munching pensively on betel leaves. She looked up at their entrance but quickly averted her gaze, wrapping her pale blue shawl tighter around her bony shoulders. A young girl in a faded red sari knelt next to her, weaving a straw basket with attentive care.

Dust went to stand in front of them, and they spoke for a moment, a quick flow of desert speech Iruka didn't even attempt to follow. Instead, he let his eyes wander, taking in his surroundings.

The ground was covered in threadbare rugs which must once have been colorful and welcoming -- their loss of fortune must have been brutal, and sudden. The tent was sparsely furnished -- only a low wooden table, a handful of cushions and an ancient, ornate chest that probably held the rest of their meager possessions. Off-white drapes curtained off the sleeping area in the back, giving an illusion of privacy.

While his mother busied herself, the boy sat down at the table, facing the entrance, and gestured at Iruka to take a seat -- a right and a duty usually reserved to the head of the household.

Iruka didn't even have to ask -- it didn't take a genius to put two and two together. Dust's father was either dead, or had taken another wife. It explained many things, and particularly their loss of status. Since the boy was too young to hunt, he and his family were a burden to the clan. They would never go hungry, but until Dust could provide for his hearth, they would be reminded of their circumstances everyday, in thousands of subtle ways.

The girl, whom Dust introduced as Flowing Sand, turned out to be his elder sister. At fourteen, her long dark hair was still plaited in the single thick braid of unmarried women, Iruka noted. With her looks it wouldn't be long before she tied it in a more adult style.

The two women waited on Dust and Iruka throughout the meal -- silent, unobtrusive yet helpful, as was proper. Though it irked his own convictions, the shinobi didn't protest or remark on it. It wouldn't do to offend his hosts by refusing their hospitality -- however misguided.

The food tasted even better than he remembered, though perhaps his abiding hunger had something to do with it.

After they were done and the table was cleared, Dust's mother -- Morning -- went out to prepare the bissap at the cooking pit. Flowing Sand sat down behind Iruka and started combing his hair silently.

Iruka grimaced slightly, annoyed at himself. By the time the girl was done, his hair would be braided in hundreds of thin tresses, and she would have spared him a severe loss of face.

The desert clan's hierarchy was strict, complex, and subtle enough to elude outsiders, be they Japanese or even Tribe. Only the Chief and his family had the right to keep their hair flowing free. By appearing thus in front of the Chief, Iruka would have committed a major social faux-pas, and nearly breached a taboo. Such mistakes he couldn't afford if he wanted to gain their trust, and more importantly, their help.

Then again, considering how long it had been since he had last slept, Iruka supposed he could be excused. He gave a jaw-cracking yawn, hiding his mouth behind his hand.

Dust glanced at him sharply.

_Come_, he said, grabbing Iruka's hand in what was quickly becoming a constant in their dealings. He dragged Iruka to the small, cramped sleeping area at the back of the tent. Weathered sleeping mats had been unrolled behind the privacy curtain.

_I'll wake you when they get back_, Dust offered. Then he added, firmly, _Sleep now_.

Iruka shook his head in vague protest even as he sat down. His eyes prickled with fatigue, but he still felt remarkably alert. He was fine, barely tired; he just needed to lie down for a while. Then he would meditate, or...

He was asleep before his head hit the straw mat.

§

A few hours later, true to his word, Dust nudged him awake from a deep slumber.

_You talk in your sleep_, the boy signed one-handed. He sat cross-legged on the ground, an ornate silver-encrusted bridle in his lap. The distinctive smell of _firis_ -- an oil made from gazelle shins -- pervaded the air.

Iruka rubbed his sweaty face in weariness and untangled himself from the horse blanket Dust had thrown over him, still reeling from a intense nightmare. The dream had faded beyond recall almost as soon as he woke up, as they always did, leaving him edgy and frustrated. He would have given his right arm for a steaming cup of strong, black coffee.

"So I've been told," he muttered, blinking owlishly, his voice still raspy from sleep. "Repeatedly."

Dust shot him a quizzical glance, his hands working the oil into the leather with sure skill.

_Sometimes_, the ex-Hunter said. _Sorry_.

The boy stopped in his work to stare at him. Then he shook his head, waving off Iruka's apology.

_I have nightmares too_, he said, a guarded look coming into his eyes. He twisted his hands in his lap, nervously.

Iruka did not have to ask what they were about. As a former Hunter, he knew more about acid jutsu -- and the damage they could cause -- than he had ever cared to. He scrambled up awkwardly, his usual grace of movement mostly gone. He stretched, stifling a yawn and feeling positively ancient

And he wasn't even _thirty_, the shinobi mused wryly. When he reached Sandaime's age, he would probably end up in a nursing home rather than the Hokage's office.

He was fastening his swords to his belt when a sudden motion caught his eye and he whirled around, hands flowing to the kodachi's hilts faster than the eye could follow.

Full of Sun raised an eyebrow. Iruka flushed in embarrassment.

_My apologies_, the tall warrior said, without resentment. _I didn't mean to startle you. Wise One said I might find you here._

"That cunning old bastard," Iruka grumbled under his breath, a tad ruefully. He didn't bother to translate, but Full of Sun gave him a sympathetic smile, obviously sharing the sentiment.

_There's someone who wishes to see you, my friend. Someone important._

At last, the ex-Hunter thought, definitely pleased with the turn this day was taking. He followed Full of Sun out of the tent, smiling a good bye at Dust who replied in kind. Then the pair made their way across the camp and around the lake, finally reaching a huge, open canvas canopy pitched under the palm trees.

A petite, wrinkled woman sat very straight on ornate, black and gold cushions. Her indigo dress and regal bearing clearly singled her out as the Chief's wife. She wore little jewellery -- only a simple silver braided circlet, and a few bracelets that jingled at her fine-boned wrists. The old woman had the understated elegance and the quiet dignity of long-time shadow rulers.

"Hansil ab'eleth," Full of Sun said, bowing very low. "Honored Mother."

The woman inclined her head, and her son took a respectful step back.

_This is White Stone, my venerable mother,_ the warrior signed for Iruka's benefit. _Mother, this man is a son of the mountain clan_.

"I know," the woman said, calmly. "I remember him."

It took Iruka a full minute to realize he could understand her. She had used mountain speech -- Iruka's mother tongue, which he hadn't heard or spoken, even in the privacy of his mind, since his parents' deaths. Shocked to the core, it was all he could do to hold back the flow of questions that suddenly assaulted his mind. He took a deep breath, collecting himself.

"I see you can check your tongue," she said, sounding faintly surprised. "Unexpected in a _shar'ta_."

"My mother taught me well," Iruka replied immediately, voluntarily overlooking the slight. His bruised pride could wait. Kakashi's executioners would not.

White Stone's stern expression softened imperceptibly.

"I don't doubt it," she said, briskly. "She was a fine woman, and a good friend. We were kin-in-kind, and grew up around the same hearth," she added at Iruka's surprised look. "I left the mountains twelve years before you were born, to follow a young desert warrior." She smiled, baring white teeth. "The Chief's son, my husband of almost forty years."

The shinobi nodded in sudden understanding.

"This doesn't explain how _you_ came to stand before me," the woman pointed out, tilting her head to the side. "You look very much alive, for a dead man."

He had been dreading this conversation since he had left Konoha. But White Stone had known his mother, and loved her, perhaps. She had a right to know.

"When the Rock shinobi came, my father was out hunting," Iruka began, resisting the urge to finger the scar across his nose. "My mother hid me in a chest. I don't know what happened after that. My father saw the smoke above the village and ran back. He killed a few of them, put on one of their uniforms, and passed us as slaves. That's how we crossed the border to Konoha."

"Ah," White Stone said, thoughtfully. "Your father." A pause. "A man of the Others."

Iruka stared at her defiantly, anger and pride flaring.

"Yes," he snapped, more sharply than he had intended. "My father. A shinobi."

Unexpectedly, the old woman smiled. It softened her stern features and made her look slightly less forbidding and formidable -- more human.

"I do not judge them," she declared abruptly. "Your mother married for love, as did I. She had spirit."

Iruka searched her wrinkled face for some hint of mockery, and found none. Something eased within him, and some of the tension left his shoulders.

"Thank you," he said, bowing his head slightly. He didn't know why he wanted White Stone's acceptance. He simply did.

"Are they well?" she inquired suddenly. "Your parents."

Iruka blinked, caught off guard. Of course she would wonder, he berated himself. She couldn't possibly know.

"No," he said, curtly. "They died a few years later."

White Stone looked briefly disappointed, but not overly surprised. Still she bowed her head, and murmured a quick prayer to guide them in the spirit world. Iruka barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the superstition.

When she eventually looked up, the Chief's wife graced him with a pensive, oblique gaze.

"Surely you haven't come all this way, after so many years, just to chat with an old woman."

Perceptive and to the point, Iruka thought, amused. She would have made a fine shinobi.

"You're right," he conceded, with a small smile. "I need the clan's help."

A flash of surprise crossed her wrinkled face.

"Do you, now?" White Stone murmured, staring at him intently. Her dark eyes glittered with some unnamed emotion.

She knew what he had in mind, Iruka realized abruptly. She remembered.

"I must be allowed to speak with the Chief," the shinobi said, before he added, in a whisper, "Please."

The old woman pursed her lips. She sighed but kept her head up, proud even when admitting defeat.

"Very well."

§

Less than an hour later, Iruka found himself facing the clan's chief under the same canopy. Blackbird was a short, sturdy man, with thinning grey hair and pox-scarred dark skin. His piercing gaze raked appraisingly over the shinobi.

Full of Sun and his mother stood to his right, his most trusted advisers -- Wise One among them -- to his left. All except the shaman and the Chief's family stared at Iruka in unabashed curiosity, despite the sheer impropriety of such an intense scrutiny.

The ex-Hunter stood calmly before them, thanking his Hunter training for his apparent lack of nervousness, though he was trembling inside with sick fear. He had faced far worse enemies than a handful of Tribe warriors, but then, Kakashi's life had never hung precariously in the balance.

No pleasantries were exchanged. Blackbird was a man of few words, and had little patience for shar'ta. Iruka rapidly outlined the situation, revealing only what he felt was relevant. White Stone translated back and forth with sure skill, easing the conversation between the two men until they almost forgot they didn't speak the same language.

"Why should we help you?" the Chief said after Iruka had spoken. He sounded honestly curious. "You are not from this clan. We owe you nothing, _shar'ta_."

Iruka took a deep breath.

"You know why," the shinobi said quietly, turning to speak directly to White Stone. "Tell him."

The old woman wouldn't meet his gaze.

"Tell him!" the ex-Hunter ordered, his already frayed patience close to snapping.

Still she hesitated, until Iruka could wait no longer. He took a step forward and raised his head.

_Blood-debt_, he motioned decisively, the word raising a gasp among the warriors. A dark fire danced in his eyes. _I invoke the blood-debt_.

* * *

TBC

Feedback extremely welcome.


	5. Shackled

**The Silent Blade: Renegade**

**Author:** Carcinya (Isolde1 on fanfiction(dot)net)  
**Author E-mail:** carcinya(at)aol(dot)com  
**Category:** Action/Adventure/Romance  
**Keywords:** Naruto Hunter-nin Iruka Kakashi  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Spoilers:** Possible up to episode 145  
**Summary:** As his lover find himself caught in a deadly whirlwind of political intrigue that leads Konoha to the brink of war, former Hunter Iruka must risk everything to protect what he holds dear. Just how far would _you_ go to defend what is yours? (KakaIru, Book 2)  
**Disclaimer:** This story is based on situations and characters created and owned by Masashi Kishimoto, various publishers including but not limited to TV Tokyo. No money is being made and no copyright infringement intended.

Now, now, people. If Naruto were mine, do you really think I'd be sitting at my computer, sipping bad coffee, and writing bad fanfiction? Honestly.

**Author's notes: **I apologize in advance for any spelling or grammar mistake there might be in this story. I am French, and still only learning the beautiful language that is English. Any comments are welcome, but obviously flames will be used to roast marshmallows. Or flamers. Yummy.

Japan ate my life. Sorry about the delay. I'm really gonna finish this, whether anybody is still reading or not, but it'll be on my own terms. :)

Unbetaed, sorry.

* * *

**Chapter 5: Shackled**

_**One day you will ask me, "Which is more important: my life or yours?"**_

_**I will say mine and you will walk away not knowing that you are my life.  
-- Khalil Gibran**_

The warriors left the Cave some time before sunrise. Iruka shivered in the cool morning air and wrapped his cloak tighter around his slender frame, holding it closed with one hand and minding the reins with the other. He tried to look ahead, hoping to catch a glimpse of Suna, but without chakra his night vision was not up to spar.

Iruka had folded his chakra upon itself so tightly it had become unnoticeable. Without the familiar energy coursing through his veins and ready to jump at his command, he felt cold and empty. It had taken him an hour's intense meditation to achieve that result -- and he wasn't totally certain he could undo it. But then, Iruka thought, dismissing the fear before it could take form, Kakashi was worth every risk.

Perhaps sensing his nervousness, his mount -- a brown mare with short muscled legs and a placid temper -- skittered to the side and reared slightly to express her displeasure. Absently, Iruka stretched out a hand to stroke her neck, and tried to quiet his restless mind. There was no sense wounding himself up for nothing.

They made their way across the rocky plateau. After a while, Full of Sun reined in his black stallion to walk beside Iruka's horse. The warrior tried, and failed, to keep his solemn composure. He offered Iruka a friendly grin, and said, in mediocre, heavily accented Japanese,

"You good, yes?"

"_Ant'o ilya_," Iruka replied in equally halting desert speech. "No worry."

They traded amused glances at their respective shabby linguistics skills, and Iruka sighed inwardly in relief. At first, he had been worried that Full of Sun might resent him for invoking the blood-debt -- after all, it concerned him quite personally. In truth, that decision had been quite a gamble, and one that might very well had cost him his life. That a _shar'ta_, a half-blood error of nature, would appeal to the Tribe's ancient, unwritten laws was infamy, a mockery of everything they stood for -- the traditions unchanged since the dawn of time, the honor of the clans and the purity of the bloodlines -- everything Iruka threatened and sullied by his very existence.

On the other hand, denying Iruka his blood-right -- _shar'ta_ though he was -- would be a smirch on the desert clan, an insult to the sand gods who had protected his life and guided him to the Cave. To make matters even more complicated, Iruka's mother and White Stone had been kin-in-kind, hearth-sisters, a very potent bond that made them relatives of sorts and thus automatically made the ex-Hunter a honorary member of the clan. Someone who should be treated with the familiarity and warmth of kin, and more importantly, someone who should be assisted and helped in all situations, even more so when a blood-debt was involved.

And so here Iruka was, riding towards Suna in the coldest hour of the night, Full of Sun at his side. Though like most of his ilk he rarely displayed any emotion, he looked content and perhaps even happy to be a part, small if crucial, of Iruka's rescue plan. As a matter of fact, it seemed that Iruka had severely underestimated the deep, sincere affection his fateful rescue had sparked in the Tribe warrior almost two decades ago. Iruka had saved his life, _shar'ta_ or not -- and that, as far as Full of Sun was concerned, apparently sealed the deal.

Full of Sun tapped him lightly on the shoulder, startling the ex-Hunter out of his reverie.

_We'll reach the city within the hour_, the warrior motioned one-handed, expression suddenly sober. Then, before Iruka could muster a reply, he kicked his horse into a gallop and resumed his place at the front.

--

Full of Sun hadn't lied -- the distinctive silhouette of Hidden Sand came into view some time later. As the group rode up the winding path, Iruka had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself from fidgeting nervously on his horse. He forced himself into a more relaxed state, breathing steadily through his nose.

As they reached the heavily-guarded city gates, the ex-Hunter made a last-minute decision, acting on pure instinct. He pulled down the scarf part of his tagelmust and bared his face, keeping his chin up. He had to trust in his disguise. A true Tribe warrior would never bow to anyone, much less a shinobi. Showing unexpected humility would paradoxically draw dangerous attention to their small group.

Two guards stood watch by the city gates, clad in Suna's distinctive dark olive combat gear, one quite obviously a new recruit, the other in his mid-forties, with the dark, leathery skin of long time desert dwellers.

"Halt!" the younger one yelled, contempt twisting his features. "Identify yourself, strangers."

Full of Sun raised his chin and sat up straighter on his richly-decorated saddle.

"I am Full of Sun, son of Chief Blackbird, of the desert clan."

The guard cut him off, looking distinctly bored.

"I only needed your name, not your family tree, for Kazekage's sake," he snapped, with an impatient wave. "Let me see your safe-conduit."

Full of Sun handed him the papers, his face betraying neither his thoughts nor his annoyance.

"Well, well," the second watchman drawled, prickled by the Tribe warrior's impassive silence, "We haven't see you darkies around in a while. An unexpected _pleasure_." He glanced past Full of Sun and nodded in Iruka's general direction. "What about this one? He's not on the list." His brow furrowed in remembrance. "And I'm pretty certain I've never seen him around."

"He family, from the North," Full of Sun said, with perfect truth. Of course, the guard wasn't familiar with the Tribe concept of "kin" -- a term that encompassed more than blood relations. "Travels with me, as... honored guest. My right, yes?"

The first guard frowned.

"Normally, I wouldn't say anything..." he said, looking unsure. "But these days it's pretty tense around here, know what I mean?"

"Cut it out, we don't want to start another tribal war," the older guard snapped, directing a dark look at his colleague. "We don't need that on our hands. Let them through."

With a reluctant frown, the younger man stepped aside and waved them on.

"Go on, then, darkies! It's your lucky day, eh?"

_You have no idea_, Iruka thought wryly as they rode through the gate. Apparently quite familiar with the layout of the Hidden Village, Full of Sun led them to the western part of the city. Suna's red-light district not long after dawn was quiet and deserted -- a far cry from its nightly hustle and bustle. There Iruka dismounted, wincing and grimacing -- horses would be the death of him, he thought forlornly. Rubbing the small of his back with one hand, he drew the reins over the mare's neck with the other, and handed them to one of the warriors.

Full of Sun gazed at him pensively for a moment, then inclined his head.

_We are leaving now_, he signalled simply. The Tribe had no words for goodbyes.

Then, with a barked order in desert speech, he and his men turned their mounts around and rode away without looking back.

"Good luck to you too," Iruka muttered ruefully. He squared his shoulder, took a deep breath and set to work. There was no time to lose.

--

_Later that day_

When Old Yoshi had sought his fortune in Suna and set up a tavern in the seediest district he could find, he had remembered his father's parting words: _Do not meddle in the affairs of shinobi_, the old man had said, shaken his head, and spat in disgust.

Living in a Hidden village, that particular piece of advice had been difficult to heed -- but he had always managed to keep more or less out of intrigue's way. So when a young woman in scant clothing entered his inn on a fine, cool night of spring, Old Yoshi's first thought was scorn-laced pity.

The wench -- a girl, really -- looked to be about twenty, five-and-twenty at most -- not older than Yoshi's eldest, Ichiume. She was almost tall, for a woman at least, but slender and graceful. Probably a half-blood, cast out by her clan, the old man thought, taking in the girl's dark chocolate skin and large, expressive eyes. Her thick black hair was done in typical Tribe fashion, too -- though Yoshi had no special liking for the savages, he had seen enough of their ilk to know _that_.

When she walked up to the counter and started batting her long eyelashes at a middle-aged shinobi, Old Yoshi simply looked away. The man was high on the ninja social ladder, or so he had gathered. It made sense the girl would take advantage of _that_ waist to put a few yens in her purse.

When the shinobi rented a room for the night and left with the half-blood girl giggling and clinging to his arm, still Old Yoshi didn't comment.

And of course, when the couple didn't come down for the rest of the night, it never occurred to Yoshi to investigate. The room had been paid in full, after all. He made a point of never prying into his customers' business -- no sir, no snooping from Old Yoshi.

But the innkeeper never saw the young half-blood girl turn back into an older, far more masculine silhouette. And when, an hour or so later, a dark-skinned, black-haired young man in shinobi uniform walked down the stairs and slapped a few thousands on the counter for a room Yoshi didn't remember having rented him, the innkeeper really -- _really_ -- thought nothing of it, and kept the extra money for the cleaning lady.

That day, and every day of his long, long life, Old Yoshi simply remembered his father's advice.

Never, _ever_ meddle in the affairs of shinobi.

_Later that night_

The cell's door slammed shut with a resounding clang. Limbs akimbo, Iruka lay where the guards had thrown him and stared at the ceiling, blinking blood out of his eyes. For a long minute, only the sound of his rapid, pained breathing broke the silence. Then he pushed himself into a sitting position, groaning as the motion jostled his numerous bruises.

The guards hadn't been tender -- clearly they had little patience for a drunk, vindictive, pathetic Tribesman, Iruka thought with a wince. Despite his discomfort, he couldn't stop the tight, rueful smile that blossom on his contused face. Phase two of his plan was well under way. Now all he needed to do was gain access to the high-security area, and then put to good use the knowledge he had stolen a few hours before at Yoshiya Inn.

Byakko or even Kurenai could have gone through the Sand Jounin's head without causing any damage, or leaving any trace, but despite his many talents the ex-Hunter had never acquired any finesse at Genjutsu. It hadn't been pleasant, but it had been _necessary_, and so he had done it. Maps, blueprints, patrol schedules -- Iruka had ripped everything from the man's mind, _taken _and _taken _until nothing had been left but an empty shell. He had disposed of in true Hunter fashion, dissolved in acid -- fascinating, what one could do with basic knowledge of chemistry and access to everyday, banal cleaning products.

Rarely had Iruka hated himself more than at that moment. He had killed an innocent man to save a murderer. There was no way around it, and the young man didn't try to reason with himself. Forsaking the village, becoming a missing-nin, even facing his past -- all this paled in comparison to the betrayal of a lifetime of principles. Certainly he had killed innocents before, but always when ordered and under duress.

It was then, standing pale and silent in a ray of moonlight by the remnants of his victim, that a sudden, inescapable realization had hit him like a slap in the face.

This was no mission. Iruka was here by choice. He had made that choice from the moment Sasuke had shown up on his doorstep, and every second ever since. He didn't want to die, nor did he want to see Konoha torn apart in a war they couldn't possibly win. But none of that would stop him.

There was nothing he wouldn't do to save Kakashi.

_Nothing_.

The sudden epiphany should have shaken him to core, and yet Iruka found his heart hardening along with his resolve. Gritting his teeth, he dragged himself up just enough to lean against the hard, mossy wall -- funny, he thought idly, how prisons always turned out dank and humid no matter how hot and dry the country's climate.

His eyes closed almost of their own volition, and he let himself go lax, forcing himself into a deep restoring sleep. The only thing he could picture in his mind's eye as he slowly went under, however, was the heartbreaking mix of resignation and sadness in Kakashi's mismatched eyes when he had seen him last.

_I did this_, he thought desperately, anguish rising in his chest like a tide. _I pushed and pushed and he broke, and oh, god, Kakashi, I'm so sorry..._

Then exhaustion caught up with him and sleep mercifully washed over everything.

--

_The next morning_

Iruka woke up to the dulcet tone of the guard's baton slamming against the bars of his cell. Stifling a groan as his abused muscles protested painfully, he stretched discreetly.

"Rise and shine," the Sand Chuunin drawled, his contempt evident beneath a thin veneer of indifference. "Breakfast."

He threw a small loaf of hard bread inside the cell, aiming for Iruka's head and hitting spot-on. The ex-Hunter's head snapped up, fury blazing in his gaze. Slowly, purposely, he picked up the offending item and felt its weight in his palm. Then, with unerring accuracy, flung it back at the Jounin, hard enough to split the man's lip.

"Feisty," the guard said, mildly, wiping the blood with the back of his hand. "Not for long, pet."

The guard opened the cell, twirling his baton with ominous skill. Iruka moved to a crouch and tensed, silencing his thoughts, guarding his face, and waited for the first blow to come. It was not long coming -- apparently, the ex-Hunter's defiance had struck a nerve.

Iruka rolled to the side and grabbed the man's wrist in a fluid movement, twisting the delicate bones until they snapped. The guard howled in agony, even more loudly than Iruka had hoped he would. Then Iruka pretended to lose his balance and allowed the now furious Chuunin to knee him in the stomach -- apparently a perennial favorite among Sand shinobi.

As he fell to the ground clutching his midsection and gasping for breath, Iruka allowed himself a small smile. The hard stone felt blissfully cool against the bruised skin of his face, a small comfort they would soon take away. And they did, five Jounin barging in the cell and taking it upon themselves to teach him a lesson he wouldn't forget. Iruka retreated deep into himself, acknowledging the pain and anger and dismissing them as irrelevant to the mission.

Then, as suddenly as they had begun, the Jounin stilled their blows, and the white-hot pain faded back to a dull, vague throb. Manageable, for a Hunter or an ANBU, but clearly not for a mere Tribe warrior, so Iruka let himself be manhandled out of the cell without any more resistance, apparently too weak to fight back.

They dragged him by his ankles to another cell, this time in the high-security section, where he would be guarded by higher level shinobi. There the five shinobi who had defended their colleague's honor so dutifully handed him to a... Special Jounin, Iruka decided, squinting through half-lidded eyes at the man's uniform.

Pity, the ex-Hunter thought wryly. He would thoroughly have enjoyed giving his Jounin tormentors a taste of their own medicine, but in all likelihood he would never get the chance. The new guard would do the trick, at any rate, though Iruka would not try to hurt him so much as disable him. For a while.

And indeed, when the special Jounin reached down to grab the -- apparently -- unconscious Tribesman's wrists, he found himself flat on his back in a split second, the chain wrapped around his neck tight enough to hurt but not to choke, his hands in a vice-like grip above his head. He had never even _felt _Iruka move -- the advantage of being a Hunter-trained shinobi with chakra levels of a civilian, nearly invisible to ninja eyes.

The man -- messy dark blond hair, scar bisecting his left eyebrow -- opened his mouth to alert his colleagues but Iruka twisted the chain and only a strangled squeak came out.

"Not a sound," Iruka growled, eyes growing flinty. "Or I'll break your jaw. Understood?"

The guard nodded, his face carefully blank. Well-trained, that one, Iruka thought. Not to be underestimated. He brought the chain back to his former position, but stayed alert, ready to strangle the man at a moment's notice.

"I'm shinobi, as you've probably guessed by now," the ex-Hunter said, calmly. "I know you won't believe me, but I'm actually trying to stop a war. Tell Gaara-sama..." He paused, still not used to the honorific. "Tell the Kazekage Konoha tried to stop me. They had nothing to do with any of this, they're clean." He took a deep breath, and stared into the guard's startlingly green eyes, willing him to understand. "They might be your only allies in what's coming."

Iruka gave a tight smile.

"Also? I'm really sorry about that," he said, shaking his head slightly. The man's eyes widened in alarm, then rolled back in their orbits when Iruka slammed the side of his hand into his temple.

Wasting no time, Iruka quickly stripped the guard down to his underwear, then proceeded to do the same. He shivered in the cool damp air, goose bumps rising on his naked flesh, as he hastily donned the Suna Jounin uniform. The man's dog-tags read, 'Arano Kazuo, Special Jounin', as well as his shinobi license number.

Then he dressed the unconscious ninja in his own dirty, grimy Tribe clothes. He couldn't bring himself to leave the ornate arm-guards Wise One had given him, so he kept them on and pulled down the long sleeves of his tan shirt over them. For paranoia's sake, he checked the senbon needles hidden between the leather and his skin once again, unaccountably relieved to find them here.

The ex-Hunter shackled the the unconscious guard and nudged him into a corner -- far enough that his features would be hard to make out in the low light, but not out of view, either.

He grabbed the few items he had hidden in the leather of his moccasins and stashed them in one of his numerous pockets. One he kept in his open palm -- a small, inch-long scroll in a transparent plastic wrapper, which Iruka quickly removed, crumpled in a ball and swallowed.

ANBU emergency scrolls could be used by anyone with a drop of chakra in them -- civilians, or wounded, energy-depleted shinobi -- and as such were illegal just about everywhere in the world... as well an integral part of any ANBU fighter's gear. Only the simplest jutsu could be imbued into the special, chakra-absorbent paper, but their limited power made them virtually undetectable.

He unrolled it and placed his thumb on the central seal. The protection spell immediately identified Iruka's chakra signature, even dimmed to civilian levels. The jutsu activated soundlessly. As Iruka felt the Henge take hold, he focused on the appearance he wanted to mimic -- paying close attention to details and taking care to conceal his more visible injuries.

A few minutes later, a near-perfect copy of the Sand guard walked out of the cell and locked it with the man's security seal. Iruka hadn't been nearly important or dangerous enough to lock up in one of the rare, chakra-consuming top-security cells -- as Kakashi undoubtedly would be -- and so instead of being keyed to the guard's essence, simply tapped into the level's general security network.

By disguising himself as the man he wanted to be mistaken for, Iruka had significantly lowered the amount of energy the Henge would need to function, and thus lengthened its duration. As an added bonus, it would imitate the faint chakra buzz every ninja gave out -- without reaching the telltale level of a jutsu laid onto a normal chakra reserve. If no one bothered to look hard enough, Iruka could hope to remain undetected for a least an hour or two.

Finding Kakashi's cell proved surprisingly easy, as it was the only one guarded by the Suna ANBU corps. The ex-Hunter strode to him, glancing behind his shoulder every so often.

"ANBU-san," he began, trying his best to sound a bit breathless. "Is everything all right on your side?"

The masked man stiffened visibly. His reaction pleased Iruka -- the other was young, clearly, and not used to mastering his emotions.

"Yes," he replied curtly, "Why?"

"Bless the Kazekage," Iruka blurted in a rush. He made a show of sighing in relief. The man was growing more agitated by the second.

"What? What's going on?"

Iruka shot him a glance of disbelief.

"You mean you haven't _heard_?" he said, his tone clearly questioning the ANBU's competence. "There's been an attempted break in. A single man, in all likelihood from Leaf. He was caught not ten minutes ago. We feared there might be more of them, but apparently not."

Iruka shook his head scornfully and flashed him a quick, amused smile. "That Konoha moron is in for a rough night, let me tell you. Anyway -- Kazekage-sama ordered Hatake's transfer to Interrogation Room 3 --" he fervently hoped there _were_ IRs in Suna --" on the double."

The ANBU seemed to hesitate.

"I need a written order."

Iruka straightened and shot him his best scathing look.

"Are you deaf? Or simply stupid?" the ex-Hunter snarled. "Kazekage-sama decreed Code Red. This is martial law, man. Now open that cell, and get that filthy murderer out. Or do you need me to spell it out and hold your hand?"

Against all odds, the guard nodded dumbly, abashed, and turned away, missing Iruka's smug grin.

_If you can scold thirty seven-year-olds into behaving, grown-up ANBU are a piece of cake._

The man placed his right palm on the door seal and the complex, multi-layered security jutsu released its hold on Kakashi's cell. When he turned back to Iruka, he never saw the lightening-quick senbon needle that the ex-Hunter jabbed into the tender skin of neck, and collapsed, unconscious.

"And here I thought _my _apprentices were gullible," Iruka said, raising an eyebrow and poking the ANBU's prone form with the tip of his sandal. "_Honestly_."

He flinched slightly, the more superstitious part of his mind hoping he had not jinxed himself and his reckless rescue plans too badly. Shrugging, he stepped into the cell.

And stared.

Kakashi was, in all honesty, an appalling mess. His handsome face was ghastly pale, and mottled with nasty-looking bruises; his hair a tangled mess of snarls, matted with dried blood, sweat and dirt. The mask was still in place, and a stained rag had been tied over his sharingan -- apparently, they wanted him dead on their own terms -- but his other eye was staring unblinkingly into the dark. He showed no reaction when Iruka raised his chin in a precise, cautious motion, didn't even flinch when the ex-Hunter took his pulse -- thready and racing, fast, too fast -- and examined his exposed pupil -- so dilated it made the grey-blue iris look nearly black. He was barely conscious, and judging by the sweat running down his temples, running a high fever.

Fear and anger gripped Iruka's heart, and he had to restrain himself from simply jumping back to his feet, and taking apart this godforsaken prison -- until they took him down, or he ran out of enemies, whichever came first. He wrestled himself back under control, biting his lip until he drew blood. He had come too far to fall apart now. There was no time to waste, no time for personal vendettas.

That would come later.

Iruka searched his pockets, rifling through the contents and identifying items by touch until his fingers closed around a small, oblong shape. The metal felt cool and strangely heavy in his hand. He squeezed his eyes shut, thoughts racing.

Kakashi was in no shape to run, or even, realistically, to stand on his own. The memory of their last desperate escape from a building about to collapse was still particularly vivid in Iruka's mind -- he wasn't about to make the same mistake twice, especially not injured as they both were. So he needed the Jounin conscious and more or less alert, at least for a few minutes.

Administering a chakra-enhanced adrenaline boost was Iruka's only option. It would buy them some time to move on the second part of his escape plan. Alternately, it might also send Kakashi into cardiac arrest.

Before stark fear could make him hesitate, the ex-Hunter pressed the epipen against the pale skin of Kakashi's neck. The effect was almost instantaneous; between one breath and the next, the Jounin's eye widened, his pupil coming into sharp focus.

"Iruka," he murmured, a throaty whisper.

"Yes, yes," Iruka said impatiently, carefully tucking away the sudden relief that threatened to overwhelm him. Whatever had been done to his ex-lover had not managed to destroy him completely.

"Iruka," the other man repeated, fervently, his eye searching Iruka's weary, bruised face with unsettling hunger. He reached out with a shaky hand, tracing the familiar scar across Iruka's nose. Something in the ex-Hunter loosened, some knot of invisible, agonizing tension unravelling with a touch. He leaned unconsciously into Kakashi's fingers, every fiber of his body crying out for more contact, aching to pull the other man into his arms and hold on tight.

The young man flinched suddenly, remembering with a pained jolt that such familiarity would not be welcomed. Kakashi was delirious, his judgment impaired by fever and drugs, and probably desperate for some reassurance, something, anything to anchor him to reality. Iruka simply happened to be there, that was all. Reading more into it would be thoroughly unprofessional.

Not to mention pathetic.

"Come on," he said, sliding Kakashi's arm over his shoulders and helping him up. The Jounin seemed shaky on his feet, but he could walk -- as long as Iruka supported most of his weight. They stepped out of the cell, and Iruka propped his charge against the wall for a few minutes, in order to drag the guard's unconscious body into the cell and slam the lock back into place.

Kakashi breathing hard and leaning heavily against Iruka, the two Konoha ninja made their ways along the darkened corridor. The ex-Hunter navigated the maze easily, his mental map of the prison and patrol schedule within easy reach of his trained mind. Still his heart raced with sickening fear. If they stumbled upon a guard, they might very well done for. Iruka could hardly hold Kakashi, monitor his condition and fight for their lives at the same time without chakra or decent weapons.

At last they reached the center of the building. The prison was built beneath the city, inside the mountain itself. It had been thought out as a additional layer of protection from attacks and invasions from the sewer system that ran underneath it. Trying to use those tunnels to escape was tantamount to suicide, for the conduits flowed directly into deadly rapids that stretched for miles on end, filled with sharp piercing rocks and without any air.

Which was, of course, the reason Iruka had chosen it as his escape route.

Nobody in their right mind would attempt it, and the Suna shinobi knew it. Considering the number of reckless stunts Iruka had been pulling off in the past few days, the ex-Hunter himself was starting to question his mental health -- or at least his survival instinct. But more practically, it also meant security protocols would be less drastic and, realistically, that was all Iruka could ask for.

He stopped in his tracks in front of an iron sewer grate.

As carefully as time and precaution could allow, Iruka lowered Kakashi to the floor, propping him against the cold, damp stone wall. The brief effort seemed to have taken on an alarming toll on the Jounin -- beads of sweat rolled down the exposed portion of his face, his lips parted to catch a breath that clearly eluded him.

The ex-Hunter crouched in front of him, wincing slightly as his oft-broken right knee gave a jolt of pain. Worry etched onto his features, he dabbed at Kakashi's drawn, ashen face with his sleeve.

"Hang on," he murmured, wiping away the perspiration with a tenderness he hadn't thought himself capable of. "We're almost out."

"M'dreaming again," the other Jounin mumbled, gaze unfocused. "He's not..."

Iruka's hand stilled, his thoughts racing. From what little he remembered of his apprentice days, and the crash-course in psychiatry Karasu-sensei had made him take, Kakashi being aware he had been hallucinating was a good sign. Not an indication of psychosis, at any rate.

"No," he replied, willing the older man to believe him as he had rarely allowed himself to want anything. "I'm real."

A glint of something purely _Kakashi _-- intelligence, cunning, irony -- crossed the Jounin's blue eye, and was gone in a flash.

"S'what the others said too," he muttered ruefully. "Look where that got me." He closed his eye. "Iruka wouldn't... be here." He trailed off, apparently drained by the simple act of thinking.

Strangely stung, Iruka flinched. He deserved it, he knew that much -- but still, Kakashi's conviction that he wouldn't have come after him, when Iruka's every thoughts had been for him, for his safety, hurt more than he care to admit.

His jaw set, he turned his attention back to the grate. Time, the shuffle of feet and little care had left the grating in a frightful state of disrepair. From Iruka had gleaned from the Sand Jounin's memory the previous night, it was scheduled for maintenance and replacement the next morning. The ex-Hunter smiled slyly. Too little, too late. By the time anyone suspected a break out, Iruka and Kakashi would be long gone -- and he was willing to bet nobody would dare follow them.

Of course, the odds of the two Leaf Jounins actually surviving Iruka's daredevil escape plan were astronomically low. Still, the young man reasoned, whatever fate had in store for them, it could hardly be worse than letting Kakashi become the proverbial pawn in a high-stake political game of chess, whose ramifications extended far beyond anything Iruka had originally envisioned.

Brow furrowed in concentration, Iruka attempted to pry the lock open with one of the senbon needles concealed beneath the hard leather of his arm-guards. It took some effort, but after a few endless minutes of struggle, the mechanism snapped open with a slight metallic sound. Iruka released a pent-up breath. As an apprentice, lock-picking techniques had been of his favorite skills, but life as an Academy teacher by day, Hunter by night had given him surprisingly few opportunities to put them to good use. Iruka's plan relied quite heavily on their being able to access the sewer system, and a failure on his part to open the lock within a reasonable time frame might have cost them their head-start.

The ex-Hunter thought himself lucky to have _any _plan at all, not matter how hair-rising or daring, considering the limited means and ridiculously short time-frame he had for himself. And if that meant his back-up plan had more of less defaulted to 'kill anything that moves and run like hell', well, it was a prospect Iruka tried not to dwell upon.

The lock dealt with, he more or less wrestled the four iron screws out of their sockets with a kunai, a tedious, finger-nicking process which drew quite a few muttered curses out of the ex-Hunter. Clearly not his finest hour, he thought, surveying his handy-work and grimacing slightly.

At long last, the sewer grate came free. With a grunt, Iruka lowered Kakashi down the dank, dark manhole, then climbed down after him. The screws and locks he dropped into the water. Then, carefully, he replaced the grate over the opening. It was always useful to keep up appearances for as long as possible -- after all, not many shinobi looked down at their feet when they made the rounds. Who knew how long it would take for somebody to notice anything amiss?

The ex-Hunter took a deep breath, counted to five, then turned around and knelt by Kakashi's side.

"Kakashi, listen to me," Iruka started, enunciating clearly. "We're in the storm drains. We have five, maybe ten minutes before they divert the river to flush them out for the daily clean-up."

The Jounin nodded vaguely, staring off into space.

"_Focus_!" Iruka snapped, shaking him slightly. "I'm gonna need you to take a deep breath when I say. Can you do that?"

"Think so," came the slurred answer. "Iruka... m'not feeling so good."

The younger man squeezed his shoulders reassuringly.

"We're working on that," Iruka said firmly. "Whatever happens, _don't let go_. Use chakra if you can. Do you hear me? Hold on to me."

All of a sudden, the grinding noise of several rusty butterfly valves slowly rotating into place echoed ominously in the conduit.

Iruka grimaced. So perhaps he had been a _tad _optimistic about those five minutes.

"Now," he ordered, forcing himself to feel as calm as he sounded. "Breathe in."

He wrapped his arms around Kakashi's waist and grabbed fistfuls of his jacket.

"I'll get you out of here if that's the last thing I do," he murmured fiercely into the Jounin's neck. "I _promise_."

Then the rushing, ice-cold water swept everything away.

--

The first two minutes under water were the longest of Iruka's life. He was _trapped_, trapped underwater in the piercing cold and he couldn't _breathe_. Claustrophobia nearly overwhelmed him but by a sheer effort of will he wrestled himself back under control, forcing himself to focus on their survival.

The water gushed and whirled around them. Iruka's numb fingers clawed at the Jounin's jacket in single-minded focus, but Kakashi, by some miracle or accident of fate, was still holding on to him with what little chakra he had left.

Then suddenly the rock overhead rose sharply, allowing the two Jounins access to precious, life-saving air. Lungs burning, Iruka gasped in sweet, painful relief. Near him Kakashi coughed up water and inhaled sharply, breath wheezing and rattling disturbingly.

It took Iruka almost a full minute to realize they had stopped.

Weighed down by heavy limestone rocks, the sturdy rope net Full of Sun and his men had installed a few hours before had temporarily halted their momentum. Quite obviously, the net was an integral part of Iruka's plan; a means of survival from an otherwise lethal escape route.

More importantly, there should also be a long, strong braided rope running parallel to the net. Almost blind with exhaustion and cold, Iruka reached out behind him in the icy water, trying to get a hole of the rope.

"I...Iruka," Kakashi stuttered, teeth chattering with the cold.

"Busy here!" the ex-Hunter snapped, still searching the water frantically. Suddenly his fingers closed around rough hemp.

"Iruka," more forcefully. "S'wearing off."

"Hold on as long as you can," Iruka ordered, worry welling up inside him like a rising tide. "I'll get us out."

All the while struggling against the current, he managed to wrestle the rope behind Kakashi's back and under his arms. Tying a secure knot took much longer than it would have with chakra and a normal body temperature, his hands numb and clumsy from the pervasive, bone-deep cold of the river. The current was so strong -- neither of them could hold on much longer.

With a cry of victory muffled by the roaring of the rapids, he managed to complete the improvised, make-shift harness, and none too soon -- Kakashi had gone completely limp, obviously unconscious. This was extremely bad news, but Iruka pushed the fear to the back of his mind before it could overtake him, ruthless in his determination. Kakashi would not have time to drown, provided Iruka made haste. And that he _would_, not matter how exhausted he felt.

Iruka started to climb, stifling hisses of pain as the rough hemp bit and seared into his palms. He was so cold he had stopped shivering, and though he welcomed any respite from his previously chattering teeth, he knew it was a sign of hypothermia setting in. He could _not _die, not after all this, not without getting Kakashi to safety first. And after that...

Grunting in pain, Iruka hoisted himself up and out of the hole. He collapsed onto the ground, chest heaving, pulse thundering in his ears until the noise threatened to drown out everything else. Even during the night, the desert sand held enough warmth to revive him slightly, even though he wanted nothing more than to simply lie there and sleep. Instead, he pushed himself up, palms digging into the sand, and turned back to the hole.

Grabbing the rope net with both hands, Iruka arched his back and heaved with what little energy he had left. To no avail -- after mere minutes of effort, his muscles cramped suddenly and he lost his footing. The rope was wrenched from his bloodied hands.

With a strangled cry of horror, Iruka threw himself to the ground, snatching the length of rope before it was too late and clutched it with the unaccountable strength of sheer despair. Gritting his teeth against the white-hope pain searing across his palms, and the abiding exhaustion crawling into his very muscles and thoughts, Iruka wound the rope tightly around his wrists. This would hopefully keep Kakashi from plummeting to his death should Iruka pass out -- a prospect that was becoming more likely by the second.

This was it, Iruka thought, lying in the sand in the cold desert night. He didn't even have the energy to scream in frustration. He had to struggle to stay conscious, but he knew himself and his body's limitations well-enough to understand he would lose this particular battle before long.

His last coherent thought went to Kakashi, cold and dying and _alone _in the dark with the icy water rushing around him. Then, between one labored breath and the next, Iruka's eyes fluttered closed and his head dropped heavily onto the sand.

He didn't have anything left to give.

* * *

Feedback more than welcome! I wonder if anyone's still reading this..?


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